ornia 
aJ 


I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SIR    COPP. 


A    POEM    FOR    THE     TIMES, 

n  £ix  Cantos. 


BY    THOMAS    CLARKE, 

AUTHOB  OF  "A  DAT  IN  MAY,"  "DONNA  KOSA,"  "THE  SILENT  VILLAGE." 

"LIFE  IN  THK  WEST,"  &a 


"  Truth — the  highest  poetry  and  the  bitterest  satire." — THK  AUTUOB. 

"Thus  have  they  masked  Hypocrisy, 

And  dubbed  her  '  Young  Democracy.' " — SIB  COPP.,  Canto  VI. 


CHICAGO: 
PRIDE    &    CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865, 
BY  THOS.  CLARKE  &  CO.. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Northern  District  of  Illinois. 


PREFACE. 


The  object  of  this  Poem  is  two-fold;  first,  to  photo 
graph  a  phase  of  human  depravity  incredible,  had  we 
not  witnessed  it;  and  to  hand  down  its  subjects  to 
eternal  infamy :  and,  secondly,  to  paint  the  beauty  and 
power  of  goodness  and  loyalty  in  the  sacred  cause  of 
God  and  of  Country.  "  Sir  Copp "  represents  the 
element  of  mean  servility  exhibited  in  those  whom  duty 
called  in  vain  to  the  support  of  their  invaded  liberties ; 
the  most  venomous  "  copperheads ''  being  those  who, 
under  a  loyal  mask,  betrayed  their  trust,  starved  our 
soldiers,  robbed  their  widows  and  orphans,  and,  like 
Benedict  Arnold,  sold  themselves  to  the  enemy.  Con 
trasted  with  this  dark  side  of  the  picture  the  patriotism 
of  our  loyal  citizens  stands  out  in  bold  relief.  Our 
aimy,  like  a  torrent,  sweeps  away  the  strongholds  of 
the  rebels  and  restores  peace  and  happiness  to  the 
nation.  But  this  glimpse  of  light  is  clouded  by  the 
murder  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  and,  in  "Abel  Misraim,"  the 
people  bewail  the  irreparable  loss  of  their  martyred 
chief.  A  digression  on  certain  British  poets,  and  a 
severe  criticism  on  "  Enoch  Arden,"  are  followed  by  a 
discussion  demonstrating  the  impossibility  of  sustaining 
liberty,  unless  founded  on  the  basis  of  popular  virtue 
and  intelligence ;  and  that  no  man,  whatever  be  his 


762364 


JV  PREFACE. 

color,  is  entitled  to  the  privileges,  unless  he  be  prepared 
to  discharge  the  duties  of  a  citizen.  The  abuse  of  this 
principle  caused  all  our  troubles  in  the  past,  and,  unless 
a  speedy  and  a  radical  reform  shall  be  effected,  we  can 
expect  nothing  better  for  the  future. 

"  Sir  Copp,"  having  undergone  a  severe  physical  and 
moral  dissection,  is  finally  introduced  into  hell,  whence 
Satan,  unwilling  to  entertain  him,  sends  him  back  to 
earth  to  be  punished  there  according  to  his  deserts. 

This  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  works,  chiefly  on  the 
war,  by  the  same  author,  which  will  be  issued  in  due 
course,  if  "  home  production  "  shall  receive  here,  at  the 
West,  a  sufficient  patronage  to  justify  the  undertaking. 

It  is  proposed,  also,  to  republish  here,  from  the  Lon 
don  editions,  the  most  popular  of  the  author's  published 
works,  to  which  the  opinions  of  the  best  English 
critics  will  be  appended,  according  to  him  a  high  rank 
amongst  the  first  poets  of  our  day. 

Perhaps  it  may  not  be  deemed  out  of  place  to  give 
here  a  few  brief  extracts  from  those  criticisms : 

The  London  Athenaeum  says :  "  Mr.  Clarke  is  highly 
successful  in  his  management  of  blank  verse,  and  the 
following  passage  from  his  "  Day  in  May,"  is  worthy  of 
praise  for  the  happy  arrangement  of  its  cadences,  and 
the  pure  and  natural  feelings  contained  in  it."  [Here 
follows  a  quotation  of  over  40  lines.] 

The  London  Spectator  speaks  of  the  same  poem  in 
the  highest  terms  ;    so  do  the  Court  Journal,  Indian 
Review,  Morning  Post,  &c. 
^  Blackwood  says  of  "  Donna  Rosa,"  that  "  it  cannot 


PREFACE.  V 

be  surpassed  for  elegance  of  style  and  correctness  of 
metre."  Tait's  Edinburgh  Magazine  coincides,  and 
Bell's  Messenger  says :  "  This  is  the  best  and  most 
musical  poem  which  the  present  season  has  produced." 

Much  more  might  be  quoted,  had  we  space.  The 
above  must  suffice  for  the  present. 

With  regard  to  this  new  poem,  "  Sir  Copp,"  the 
author  relies  entirely  on  the  good  sense  and  judgment 
of  the  people  of  the  Great  West,  for  an  impartial  deci 
sion  of  its  claims  to  public  favor ;  and  he  will  rest 
satisfied  with  that  decision,  whatever  it  may  be ;  for  he 
cannot  but  believe,  that  those  who  have  been  able  to 
appreciate  the  best  political,  military  and  legal  talent 
in  the  country,  will  also  be  able  to  discriminate,  and 
reward,  literary  merit,  when  it  is  fairly  and  candidly 
presented  for  their  consideration. 

CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS. 


DEDICATION 

TO    THE 

PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


Great  Sov'reign,  mightier  far  than  king, 
Accept  this  off  'ring  which  I  bring. 
Thy  humble  servant  would  propose 
A  novel  theme  in  rhyming  prose ; 
Or,  since  my  Muse  flanks  tHe  sublime, 
Then  be  it  named  prosaic  rhyme. 
No  matter,  if  the  thing  shall  please, 
Concerning  names  I  feel  at  ease. 


INVOCATION   TO    THE    MUSE. 

Muse,  if  you  ever  condescend 
To  aid,  in  time  of  need,  a  friend, 
If  ever  I  have  sung  a  lay 
That  charmed  you  on  a  happier  day ; 
If,  with  the  fat  of  spitted  priests, 
I  have  enriched  your  genial  feasts ; 
Or  politician's  sav'riest  part, 
Has  warmed  the  "  cockles  "  of  your  heart : 
Oh,  grant  me,  now,  this  precious  boon, 
(Again  I  may  not  ask  you  soon,) 
May  I  before  the  lieges  spread 
The  merits  of  the  Cowerhead ! 


•  •  • 

VUl 

MUSE   IN  RESPONSE. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  boon  you  ask, 
And  mine  will  be  an  arduous  task  : 
The  reptile's  name  is  legion ; 
He  every  color  can  put  on ; 
He  is  a  blackleg  all  complete, 
The  people  to  delude  and  cheat ; 
Pretends  to  be  their  faithful  hack, 
Yet  claps  a  saddle  on  their  back 
And  rides  them  roughshod  through  the  mire, 
Not  suffering  them  to  lag  or  tire, 
But  whips  and  spurs  the  patient  jade, 
Which  never  can  his  yoke  evade, 
Until,  from  high  official  chair 
He  sees  the  gaping  creatures  stare 
Upon  the  riches  he  has  fobbed 
From  those  he  so  adroitly  robbed ; 
Or  in  the  Senate  or  the  House, 
He  sits  with  those  who  there  carouse 
At  your  expense,  and  laughs  to  scorn 
The  slaves  who  for  his  use  were  born. 
But  though  the  task  is  hard,  yet  still, 
I  owe  you  much  for  your  good  will ; 
Then  come,  together  let  us  wing 
Our  upward  flight,  and  boldly  sing 
The  strains  which  from  my  lips  shall  flow, 
I  love  to  pay  whate'er  I  owe. 


SIE   COPP. 


CANTO  I. 

' '  To  hell  how  easy  the  descent  1 
But  to  retrace  your  steps  and  to  regain 
The  light  of  Heaven,  alas,  how  difficult  1" — VIBGIL. 


Some  orator  hath  lately  said, 
(And  mark  the  speech  each  Copperhead,) 
"  Who  martyrs  out  of  rebels  make, 
Themselves  are  worthy  of  the  stake, 
And  they  shall  have  their  full  deserts, 
When  Justice  all  her  rights  asserts." 

I  grant,  the  government  was  wrong, 
In  giving  color  to  a  throng 
Of  traitors  so  sublimely  small, — 
(The  merest  insects  after  all,) 
Of  raising  martyrs  from  their  ranks ; 
For  this  it  scarce  deserves  our  thanks, 
Whilst  bigger  flies  are  left  at  large ; 
The  only  answer  to  this  charge 
That  I  can  urge  in  its  excuse, 
It  turned  the  barnacles  all  loose, 
That  bored  the  timbers  of  the  ship, 
And  caused  them  drop  their  murderous  grip ; 
And,  like  Ithuriel's  spear  of  yore, 
It  touched  the  toadies  to  the  core, 


10  SIR   COPP. 

And  goaded  them  unmasked  to  spring, 

At  once  to  light  and  show  their  sting. 

Soon  may  it  send  each  tory  sham 

Hence  hell-ward  with  Vallandigham ! 
All  this  was  well :  for  now  we  see 

Much  that  was  veiled  in  mystery : 

We  now  behold  the  secret  springs 

That  worked  the  puppets  with  their  strings, 

And  are  prepared  to  circumscribe 

The  "  Golden  Circle's"  venal  tribe, 

The  trappers  in  their  net  to  mesh, 

And  try  their  flavor,  fish  or  flesh ; 

Or  whether  they  be  bird  or  beast : 

No  neutral  bat  adorns  our  feast. 

Come  forth  from  that  same  magic  ring, 

And  let  us  view  that  precious  thing 

You  call  a  neutral,  we,  a  drone, 

Or  rebel  traitor — both  in  one. 

If  any  "  neuter  "  should  be  here, 

"Now  is  his  time,  let  him  appear.  (A  nondescript  Cop 
perhead   comes   forward,   whom    Scalpel   addresses 
thus:) 
Behold  this  scalpel  and  this  probe, 

To  prove  your  heart  beneath  that  robe ; 

And  lo !  this  stethescope  to  test 

The  inmost  secrets  of  your  breast, 

Shrink  not !  for  if  your  heart  be  sound, 

Nor  rottenness  therein  be  found, 

And  you  be  loyal,  as  you  say, 

No  cause  have  you  for  such  dismay: 


SIB   COPP.  11 


If  conscience  tells  you,  you  are  right, 
"Why  shun  the  test  of  truth  and  light  ? 

Sm    COPP — 
I  dread  the  dungeon ! 

SCALPEL — 

Be  you  true, 
The  dungeon  was  not  made  for  you. 

SIR  COPP — 

The  "  habeas  corpus  "  is  suspended, 
And  with  it  liberty  is  ended. 

SCALPEL-  - 

Suspended !  yes,  for  those  alone 
Who've  made  the  rebel  cause  their  own, 
Who  ought  to  be  suspended  too, 
If  every  dog  should  get  his  due. 
You  shake  your  head  and  still  demur, 

SIR  COPP — 

But,  then,  "the  proclamation, "  sir, 
Can  you  excuse  or  palliate 
An  act  so  dreadful,  so  ingrate  ; 
To  rob  three  hundred  thousand  braves, 
Of  their  best  Samson  locks,  their  slaves  ? 
Oh,  Lincoln  false  !   we  know  thee  now, 
A  perfect  Delilah  art  thou, 
To  lull  thy  Samson,  till  the  bands 
Of  Philistines  tie  down  his  hands : 
Nor  would  it  strike  us  with  surprise, 
If  next  you  robbed  him  of  his  eyes ; 

And  then ! — 

SCALPEL — 

What  then? 


12  SIB   COPP. 

Snt  COPP — 

Why,  then,  look  out, 
The  temple  falls  your  ears  about 
And  sweeps! — 

SCALPEL — 

How  frightful,  all  at  once, 
Are  those  disasters  you  announce ! 
Like  miracles  exempt  from  laws, 
They  mark  effects  without  a  cause. 
The  "  proclamation ! '      Why,  'twas  fun 
For  you  and  yours,  short  time  agone ; 
A  mastiff's  bay  against  the  moon, 
The  dish  that  scampered  with  the  spoon, 
With  spoony  grandam  mounted  on  it, 
Or  the  Pope's  bull  against  the  comet ; 
A  "  brutum  fulmen  "  which,  at  best, 
Was  meant  to  scare,  and  not  divest ; 
And  now,  it  has  become  at  once 
A  stumbling  block  of  great  offense  ! 
To  dwell  on  this  is  poor  pretext : 
What  grievance  will  you  lug  up  next  ? 
What,  none !  'Tis  well,  then,  bare  your  breast, 
And  yield  to  this  unerring  test. 

SIB  COPP — 

Nay,  stop  one  moment,  let  me  ask 
This  question,  then  perform  your  task : 
What  right  had  Lincoln  to  suspend 
The  "  habeas  corpus,"  or  to  lend 
His  sanction  to  the  violation 
Of  that  great  bulwark  of  the  nation, 


SIR   COPP.  13 


The  constitution  of  the  land, 
Beneath  whose  aegis  all  should  stand 
On  equal  footing  in  the  sight 
Of  God  and  law,  their  manhood's  right  ? 

SCALPEL — 

What !  Lincoln  make  a  revolution, 
And  violate  the  constitution ; 
The  "  habeas  corpus  "  set  aside, 
That  he  might  rule  with  regal  pride  ! 
What  monstrous  calumnies  I  hear ! 
What  misconceptions  strike  mine  ear ! 
Now,  if  in  ignorance  you  stand, 
A  stranger  in  this  glorious  land, 
Nor  yet  have  learnt  the  scope  and  worth 
Of  Freedom,  hear,  I  set  them  forth. 
But,  if  corruption  clouds  your  soul, 
Which  your  own  conscience  should  control, 
Of  which  the  truth  shall  soon  appear, 
Then  tremble  for  your  fate,  but  hear ; 

So  firmly  have  our  fathers  built 
Fair  Freedom's  temple,  that,  save  guilt, 
No  power  the  fabric  can  tear  down ; 
And  then  what  falls  strikes  those  alone 
Who  draw  its  terrors  on  their  head, 
And  none  need  suffer  in  their  stead : 
This  truth  is  often  dearly  bought 
By  those  who  set  its  laws  at  nought, 
And  chiefly  in  the  traitor's  case, 
For  whom  the  temple  keeps  no  place, 


14  SIB   COPP. 

Save  that  whose  dungeon  walls  secure 
The  good  from  him  they  cannot  cure ; 
Or  whence  the  gallows  gives  release, 
That  those  behind  may  dwell  in  peace. 
The  "  habeas  corpus  "  gives  no  hope, 
The  constitution  gives  a  rope, 
To  these  and  such  as  these.     Yet, "  why  '• 
You  ask,  "  should  such  in  dungeons  lie ; 
Why  sink  the  power  of  men  beneath, 
Or  suffer  ignominious  death  ?" 

Because  their  own  deliberate  course 
Draws  on  themselves  the  cross  and  curse; 
Be  theirs  the  blame,  and  not  on  those 
Who  for  our  safety  interpose 
Betwixt  the  murderer  and  our  life, 
To  save  us  from  the  fire  or  knife. 
Then  why  should  parricides  go  free, 
The  murderers  of  Liberty  ? 
Who  with  felonious  hand  would  burn 
The  temple,  and  the  sacred  urn 
Of  him  who  to  us  did  bequeath 
The  noblest  gift  the  stars  beneath? 
Who  Liberty  and  Washington 
Betray,  suspend  all  acts  in  one. 
Nor  needs  there  that,  to  suit  such  case, 
A  single  stone  should  change  its  place ; 
Since  self-protection  still  dictates, 
That  thieves  should  be  debarred  its  gates ; 
And  he  who  watcheth  on  the  tower 
Must  never  sleep  in  danger's  hour ; 


SIB   COPP.  15 

He  would  be  recreant  to  his  trust, 
Did  he  admit  the  brood  accurst. 
What  rights  have  such  within  the  pale 
Where  Freedom  and  her  sons  prevail  ? 
One  only  right,  and  that  is  flat, 
The  right  to  wear  a  hemp  cravat ! 

Now,  are  you  answered  ?  Don't  you  know 
We  all  are  masters  here  below ; 
And  chiefly  in  this  land,  to  be 
Just  what  we  will,  or  slave  or  free  ? 
One  truth  is  clear,  the  path  of  right 
Will  lead  to  joy,  to  peace,  to  light ; 
The  wrong  as  surely  lead  astray, 
As  gloomy  night  succeeds  to  day.  . 
No  Lincoln  for  a  single  hour, 
To  blast  our  happiness  has  power, 
Had  he  the  will  to  do  us  wrong ; 
The  law  protects  both  weak  and  strong ; 
(Such  is  its  object  and  its  use, 
When  freed  from  partizan  abuse ;) 
But  who  transgresses  law  invokes 
On  his  own  head  its  righteous  strokes, 
And  for  his  suffering,  sin  and  shame, 
Has  no  one  but  himself  to  blame. 

I  laugh  at  those  whose  purblind  eyes 
See  all  things  in  a  strange  disguise  ; 
Who  tell  us,  that  the  President, 
With  his  due  powers  not  half  content, 
The  constitution  must  suspend 
That  constitution  to  defend ; 


16  SIB   COPP. 

As  if  a  man  who  is  attacked, 
Must  first  be  all  to  pieces  hacked, 
And  have  his  breath  suspended  too, 
Before  he  anything  can  do, 
To  strike  for  life  in  self-defense ; 
Or  dare  to  use  what  common  sense 
Dictates,  and  every  man  concedes, 
"  Necessity  all  law  exceeds ;" 
And  thus  where  danger  is  extreme, 
Becomes  itself  the  law  supreme. 

I  ask,  what  kind  of  constitution 
Were  that,  which  fearing  dissolution, 
Assumes  grotesque,  protean  shapes ; 
Or,  like  a  garter-snake,  escapes, 
By  breaking  into  numerous  links, 
"While  each  to  its  own  dungeon  slinks, 
Until,  the  danger  overpast, 
Their  fragments  reunite  at  last? 
Such  were  a  mockery,  a  sham, 
The  hope  of  freeborn  souls  to  damn; 
A  demon  sent  from  hell's  profound, 
To  taunt  us  with  fair  Freedom's  sound. 
Shall  we  not  wield  the  rightful  power 
To  crush  our  foe  in  danger's  hour ; 
To  teach  our  enemies  to  feel 
The  virtue  of  our  polished  steel ; 
Give  to  the  dungeon,  ball  or  knife, 
All  traitors  who  assail  our  life ; 
While  e'en  the  worm  and  snail  inert 
Great  nature's  privilege  assert? 


sue  COPP.  17 

Lincoln,  be  steadfast,  undismayed; 
Make  use  of  cannon,  slave  or  blade, 
Nay  all  the  means  within  your  reach, 
To  man  the  wall — defend  the  breach ; 
And  scourge  the  fierce,  rebellious  band, 
With  every  weapon  at  command : 
Make  no  distinction ;  smite  alike 
False  friends  and  open  foes  who  strike ; 
Nor  pause  amidst  the  iron  shower, 
Your  right  is  measured  by  your  power ; ft 

But,  copperhead,  why  do  you  writhe, 
And  gnaw,  in  vain,  the  mower's  scythe  ? 
You  hum  and  haw,  at  every  pause, 
And  prate  of  violated  laws  , 
Of  broken  vows,  "  emancipation," 
And  all  the  sufferings  of  the  nation ; 
Thus  Satan  writhes,  while  preachers  lash  him, 
And  for  his  doings  soundly  thrash  him ; 
While  he,  the  injured  innocent, 
Indignant  apes  the  holy  saint ! 
Enough !  my  speech  has  been  in  vain  , 
Now  bare  that  breast  of  yours  again ; 
I  will  dissect  it  spite  of  fate, 
Your  prayers  and  groans  are  all  too  late ; 
My  friends,  take  hold :    he  squirms  and  twists 
And  with  such  energy  resists, 
That  I — 'Tis  well,  you've  got  him  fast, 
And  I  have  got  my  way  at  last ! 

But,  ere  I  venture  to  dissect  him, 
My  friends,  I  ask  you  to  inspect  him. 


18  sin  COPP. 

Behold  his  strange,  abnormal  shape, 

Something  between  a  snake  and  ape  ; 

Aud  mark  his  lank,  distorted  body 

Clad  in  a  garb  of  clouts  and  shoddy ! 

How  like  a  legal  malefactor, 

Or  loyal  shoddyite  contractor ! 

No  difference  can  you  detect, 

Unless  you  narrowly  inspect ; 

And  then  it  is  but  nominal ; 

With  both  self-interest  is  all. 

His  phiz,  you  see,  is  almost  human, 

Save  that  his  look  is  of  a  demon ; 

His  face  is  ever  earthward  bent, 

As  if  on  treasures  there  intent ; 

His  glance  thence  never  turns  astray 

Towards  sunny  sky  or  milky  way ; 

His  usual  gait  is  on  all  fours, 

Although  his  hands  will  open  doors ; 

You  see   they're  hooked  like  vulture's  claws, 

To  clutch  the  gold  through  chinks  and  flaws ; 

No  lock  of  treasury  can  bar 

His  entrance  or  his  purpose  mar  ; 

Whatever  meets  his  greedy  eyes, 

He  seizes  as  his  lawful  prize ; 

Filches  the  gold  from  out  its  bed, 

And  "  greenbacks  "  shuffles  in  its  stead ; 

(For  he  with  caution  still  would  steer, 

And  honest  ever  would  appear ;) 

And,  with  the  gold  thus  basely  gotten, 

Sends  arms  to  rebels  for  their  cotton ; 


SIR  COPP.  19 

And  thus  his  honors  cheaply  wins, 
His  loyal  cloak  hides  all  his  sins ! 

Friends,  while  small  flies  .still  feel  our  laws, 
Shall  big  ones  burst  through  rents  and  flaws, 
And  fall  like  Jove  with  golden  shower, 
To  rob  the  iron-bolted  tower ; 
Shall  we  from  whom  the  gold  was  taken, 
Remain,  like  Israel's  sons,  unshaken 
In  our  allegiance  to  the  Devil, 
Well  knowing  that  his  deeds  are  evil  ? 
Like  them,  but  not  so  wise  by  half; 
Theirs  was  a  real  golden-calf; 
Whilst  we,  oh  shame  and  sad  disgrace ! 
Must  of  the  calf  assume  the  place ; 
"Not  to  be  worshipped  and  caressed, 
(That  were  too  good  for  such  a  beast ; ) 
No,  but  to  give  our  gold  away,  f 

And  worship  calves  of  brass  and  clay ; 
Who  still,  the  more  that  we  adore, 
Our  gold  and  worship  claim  the  more ; 
And  look  more  brazen  than  before ! 

Friends,  while  poor  nameless  wretches  pine 
In  dungeon,  or  in  dungeon-mine, 
Whom  cold  and  hunger  led  astray, 
To  filch  a  loaf  upon  their  way ; 
Friends,  freemen,  tell  me,  is  it  right, 
That  those  foul  fiends  who  love  the  night ; 
Whose  grov  'ling  souls  for  mammon  made 
Incessant  ply  their  thieving  trade, 


20  sra  COPP. 

And  on  a  large  scale  rob  the  State, 

Whose  misplaced  faith  had  made  them  great 

Base  hirelings  whose  ingratitude 

Repays  with  evil  every  good ; 

"Who,  if  they  had  their  just  deserts, 

Would  pine  at  tail  of  penal  carts, 

And  feel  distained  with  felon's  gore 

The  lash  their  sires  had  borne  before ; 

Say,  should  such  wretches  go  scot-free, 

Enjoy  Heaven's  light  and  liberty; 

In  mockery  of  earth  and  skies, 

Blazon  their  shame  before  our  eyes ; 

Nay,  be  caressed  as  something  great, 

And  models  for  youth  to  imitate  ? 

Oh  God !  if  this  be  liberty, 

From  such  be  our  loved  country  free ; 

And  may  a  race  less  prone  to  serve 

The  demon,  Plutus,  rise  with  nerve, 

And  drive  the  grov'ling  trash  to  hell, 

A  place  most  fit  for  such  to  dwell ! 

Thus  only  can  our  land  become 

Of  brave  and  free  the  honored  home !  ' 

Our  land !  oh  may  its  boundless  space 
Be  homes  for  men  of  Abraham's  race ; 
Men  who  are  "  Israelites  indeed  !" 
God  purge  our  troubled  land  with  speed ; 
Strike  every  grov'ling  traitor  dead, 
And  clear  it  of  the  copperhead !  d 

And  you,  ye  watchdogs  of  the  press. 
Ye  "  friends  of  virtue  in  distress  " 


SIR   COPP.  21 


Who  preach  a  homily  each  day 
To  wretches  who  have  missed  their  way ; 
And  with  your  saws  and  cutting  jokes 
Direct  at  paupers  all  your  strokes : 
Where  are  your  homilies  for  those? 
Who  every  good  on  earth  oppose? 
For  those  big  sinners  who  oppresi 
The  poor  and  widow  in  distress ! 
Who  fleece  their  laborers  on  Monday, 
That  they  may  saints  appear  next  Sunday, 
When  they  are  liberal  with  the  gold 
For  which  they  have  their  country  sold ; 
How  comes  it  that  you  pass  these  by, 
Or  squint  with  retroverted  eye 
At  their  misdeeds,  while  still  with  hate 
The  poor  and  weak  you  well  berate  ? 

Hoy,r  comes  it  ?  Answer,  potent  sirs ! 
Because  you  are  but  venal  curs ; 
The  purchased  tools  that  despots  use, 
To  gloze  their  crimes  or  them  excuse ; 
The  creatures  doomed  to  echo  still 
The  dictates  of  your  master's  will ; 
Prompt  to  obey  the  prompter's  nod, 
And  worship  Mammon  as  your  god. 

Oh  Press,  great  pillar  of  the  State, 
How  deeply  art  thou  fallen  of  late ! 
To  what  a  gulf    of  degradation, 
From  such  a  height  of  power  and  station ! 
Your  friends  scarce  recognize  your  face, 
Whose  traits  betray  your  foul  disgrace : 


22  SIR  COPP. 

Should  Franklin  rise  from  out  his  grave, 
He'd  grieve  to   see  thee  such  a  slave ; 
Should  Faust  or  Gutenberg  arise, 
How  painful  were  their  deep  surprise, 
To  find  their  giant  hopes  decline 
To  pigmy  bantlings  such  as  thine ! 
How  grieved  the  Areopagite,6 
Could  he  behold  the  sickening  sight ! 
But  why  pursue  this  mournful  tale  ? 
Repinings  now  of  what  avail ! 

Halt,  muse  !  If  thus  we  rattle  on, 
When  will  our  serious  work  be  done  ? 
We've  thrown  away  much  indignation ; 
Return  we  to  our  "  demonstration." 

His  hinder  parts  from  hot  affray 
Are  made  to  bear  him  swift  away ; 
Or,  if  the  hounds  of  law  pursue, 
He  bounds  like  buck  or  kangaroo ; 
Till,  safe  beyond  the  Atlantic  wave 
His  carcass  and  his  dross  he  save ; 
He  revels  there  like  millionaire 
Or  nabob,  for  the  vulgar  stare, 
Till,  spurned  by  all  good  men  with  scorn, 
He  wishes  he  had  ne'er  been  born, 
And  homeward  turns  in  his  vexation, 
To  find  midst  Copps  some  toleration. 
A  loyal  tongue  he  sometimes  wags, 
But  see  those  fangs  and  poison  bags 
That  He  concealed  beneath  its  root ; 
Touch  not  or  death  will  be  the  fruit. 


SIR  COPP.  23 

But  he  our  words  will  laugh  to  scorn, 
Till  from  his  face  the  mask  is  torn. 
(Dissecting  him,) 

I  rip  him  open !   lo,  his  heart 
Is  foul  and  black  in  every  part ! 
A  cancerous  ulcer  gnaweth  there, 
Defying  the  healer's  skill  and  care ; 
Now  with  this  probe  its  depths  I  sound ; 
Ha !  what  is  this  that  I  have  found  ? 
A  yielding  something  not  quite  rotten ; 
What  can  it  be  ?  (Drawing  it  out  on  the  point  of  his 

probe,)  A  ball  of  cotton ! 

"  Zounds !"  you  exclaim'  "  'Tis  very  odd !" 
Not  so,  for  cotton  was  his  god ; 
His  heart  was  in  it.     Do  you  start  ? 
It  formed  the  nucleus  of  his  heart ; 
And  from  the  fire  if  he  could  save  it, 
Fame,  party,  Heaven  itself,  he'd  brave  it ! 

His  scull  is  soft — his  head  is  sore ; — 
His  brain  is  tainted  to  the  core ; 
And  on  his  brain-case  you  may  trace 
A  bump — the  monarch  of  its  race, — 
Cobb-ativeness,  so  named  from  Cobb, 
A  bump  that  prompts  to  steal  and  rob ; 

t 

Another  near  to  it  allied 

Takes  name  and  function  both  from  Floyd ; 

Two  more  hardby  may  strike  your  fancy, 

One  named  from  Slidell,  one  from  Yancey ; 

And  one  there  is — the  Davis  bump, 

In  function  strange  as  huge  in  lump ; 


SLR  corp. 

It  fills  its  owner's  heart  with  fright, 
And  stamps  him  an  Hermaphrodite ! 
And  there  are  others  quite  congenial 
Which  serve  to  mark  the  serf  and  meniaL 
But,  Fowler,  I  owe  you  an  apology, 
I  tramp  on  your  coat  tail,  Phrenology. 

His  nerves  are  dead  in  every  sense, 
His  breath  is  rank  and  gives  offense, 
His  flesh — I  touch  it  with  my  blade ; 
Of  such  the  flunkey  tribe  is  made, 
The  patient  tribe  who  ready  stand 
To  execute  their  lord's  command, 
Instant,  or  in  or  out  of  season, 
Nor  e'en  presume  to  ask  a  reason; 
But  do  whate'er  their  masters  say, 
As  Pitt  was  served  by  Castlereagh ; 
Or  as  that  king,  named  George  the  Third, 
Was  flunkeyed  by  his  Tory  herd, 
Who  Washington  and  Freedom  spurned, 
And  well  the  name  of  Tory  earned, 
Which  to  them  and  their  race  shall  cling, 
While  streams  shall  flow  or  grass  shall  spring.' 

Now,  Copperheads,  in  you  I  trace 
These  marks  of  that  accursed  race ; 
The  name  of  liberty  you  scorn, 
Because  you  natural  slaves  are  born : 
Your  love  for  despots  you  preserve, 
Because  you're  made  express  to  serve : 
You  worship  pomp,  and  glare,  and  kings, 
Because  you  are  not  men — but  things ; 


SIK  COPP.  25 


And  wish  for  things  in  turn  to  do 
The  like,  and  eat  the  dirt  for  you ! 

"Not  merely  on  your  brain  and  heart 
Is  branded  slave ;    on  every  part, 
On  erery  muscle,,  joint  and  bone, 
In  every  gesture,  look  and  tone, 
The  flunkey  we  can  hear  and  see, 
Prepared  to  crook  the  supple  knee 
To  Jeff,  for  whom  it  is  your  pride 
To  turn  a  traitor,  parricide ; 
Your  country,  duty,  all  forgot ; 
And  pray  for  this  what  have  you  got  ? 
That  just  reward  which  you  deserve, 
As  do  all  those  that  willing  serve, 
Who  might  command,  the  despot's  scorn, 
Who  loathes  you  as  base  flunkeys  born, 
Whom  having  served  his  turn  and  pride, 
With  tools  as  base  he  flings  aside ! 

Degenerate  wretches  !   by  what  claim 
Dare  you  assert  the  freeman's  name? 
You  are  no  freemen  !  no,  not  you ; 
But  bantlings  of  that  motley  crew, 
The  blight  of  Europe  and  its  dross, 
Once  borne  the  Atlantic  tide  across, 
By  hostile  winds  and  angry  waves, 
Vile  scum,  to  shame  true  freemen's  graves. 
Whate'er  the  scourge  or  rope  had  spared, 
What  vice  engendered,  folly  reared ; 
Whatever  monsters  spring  to  life, 
Where  foul  disease  aud  filth  are  rife  ; 


26  SIB  COPP. 

Where  men  of  wild,  disordered  brain 

x 

Beget  such  nondescripts  as  Train ; 

Or  where  some  patriarch,  dotard  grown, 

Gives  name  to  children  not  his  own, 

As  Cobb,  Floyd,  Tancey  or  Wigfall, 

Or  Hammond,  biggest  snob  of  all ; 

(Who  ever  knew  such  names  to  grace 

The  chivalry  of  any  race  ?) 

All  such,  by  terror  long  repressed, 

Now  raise  aloft  their  murderous  crest, 

Their  venom  concentrate  in  you, 

To  blight  and  scourge  the  world  anew. 

When  o'er  the  land  such  seed  is  spread, 

To  plague  the  living — shame  the  dead, 

What  wonder  miseries   should  prevail, 

And  every  evil  life  assail  ? 

While  hell's  black  jaws  yawn  wide  beneath, 

And  belch  on  high  its  sulphurous  breath, 

What  wonder  Freedom's  glorious  dawn 

Is  clouded  by  the  infernal  spawn  ? 

The  taint  of  crime  will  long  remain 
Deep  in  the  blood,  though  outward  stain 
Be  lost  to  view  or  whitewashed  o'er, 
Each  generation  more  and  more ; 
Till  some  occasion  shall  arise 
For  throwing  off  the  slim  disguise ; 
Then  instinct  will  assert  its  right, 
As  sure  as  evil  loves  the  night ! 

Search  through  the  records  of  all  time, 
This  is  the  history  of  crime : 


SIR  COPP.  27 


Trace  back  the  Slidells,  Floyds  and  Cobbs, 
And  every  wretch  who  steals  or  robs  , 
And  all  i\ho  kiss  you  to  betray, 
From  Judas  to  the  present  day ; 
You'll  find  them  very  much  the  same, 
The  taint's  transmitted  with  the  name  : 
Else,  while  the  eagle  bares  his  breast, 
Some  thieving  daw  pollutes  his  nest ! 

For  this  let  traitors  bear  the  shame, 
But  Liberty  is  not  to  blame, 
Nor  those  who,  in  her  happier  day, 
Were  kindled  by  her  orient  ray ; 
These  did  their  duty,  be  it  ours, 
To  strew  their  graves  with  living  flowers, 
And  consecrate  their  deeds,  while  we 
Maintain  this  bulwark  of  the  free, 
The  legacy  they  handed  down ; 
So  we  shall  win  a  glorious  crown, 
Like  theirs,  and  through  each  coming  age, 
Our  names  shall  glow  on  Freedom's  page. 


CANTO  II. 

"  Hail,  holy  light  I"—  MILTON. 

"  Paulo  majora  canamus." — YIEGIL. 

As,  when  some  lone,  half-foundered  bark, 
Pent  up  in  Northern  regions  dark 
'Twixt  icebergs  and  the  rocky  shore, 
Where  wintry  billows  wildly  roar ; 


28  SIB  COPP. 

Where  howling  winds  around  her  rave 

And  ocean  yawns  with  many  a  grave ; 

The  awe-struck  crew  are  dumb  with  fear, 

And  shudder  at  the  danger  near  ; 

But  when,  their  toils  and  dangers  past, 

They  reach  their  long  lost  homes  at  last, 

Their  hearts  rejoice  in  every  breast, 

And  all  enjoy  the  unwonted  rest: — 

As  when  some  antiquarian  sage, 

Intent  to  read  dame  Nature's  page, 

Through  gloomy  caverns  threads  his  way, 

Unmindful  of  the  light  of  day, 

And,  only  midst  vile  toads  and  snakes, 

At  length  to  sense  of  danger  wakes ; 

Then  hastens  forth  to  cheer  his  sight 

Once  more,  with  God's  all-beauteous  light; 

So  I,  till  lately  doomed  to  mourn 

Midst  scenes  of  horror,  joyful  turn 

To  others  of  more  pleasing  hue, 

Where  worth  and  valor  meet  the  view, 

And  in  the  patriot's  soul  combine 

To  light  it  with  a  ray  divine. 

I  bless  the  man  whose  soul  disdains 
To  live  by  others'  toils  and  pains ; 
The  bread  procured  by  slavery's  groans 
From  tortured  flesh  and  aching  bones, 
To  him  were  bitter  as  the  fruit 
Whose  tree  in  hell  sends  deep  its  root; 
The  usurer's  ill-got  gains  he  spurns ; 
No  widow  through  his  grasping  mourns ; 


SIE  COPP.  29 


For  him  no  serfs  turn  up  the  soil, 

No  minions  delve,  no  drudges  toil ; 

But  his  own  hands  his  wants  supply, 

God's  fount  allays  his  thirst  when  dry; 

His  wife  and  children  are  arrayed 

In  garments  their  own  hands  have  made ; 

No  guilty  jewels  deck  their  brow, 

Procured  by  means — no  matter  how. 

His  loyalty  is  pure  and  strong, 

He  loves  his  country,  "  right  or  wrong  ;"g 

If  foes  assail,  he  will  not  pause 

To  cavil  or  discuss  the  cause ; 

Or  load  the  noble  with  abuse, 

And  skulk  with  this  or  that  excuse. 

No,  no,  he  scorns  ignoble  rest, 

And  as  a  patriot  bares  his  breast, 

The  first  in  council,  first  in  fight, 

For  God,  his  country,  and  the  right. 

For  freedom  he  desires  to  live, 

Which  he  to  all  would  freely  give ; 

And  when  at  length  he  comes  to  die, 

No  frightful  phantoms  meet  his  eye ; 

Resigned  to  Heaven  he  yields  his  breath, 

His  kindred  dust  to  dust  beneath. 

In  such,  through  God's  most  gracious  plan, 

Behold  the  Christian  gentleman  ; 

The  true  republican  behold. 

As  in  our  Washington  of  old. 

Yes,  yes,  in  him  we  recognise 

An  "  Israelite  without  disguise :" 


30  SIB   COPP. 

And,  Lincoln,  thanks  to  heaven,  we  see 

A  second  Washington  in  thee ; 

Raised  up  to  save  the  ship  of  State, 

And  pilot  it  through  danger's  gate ; 

And  many  a  noble  spirit  born 

To  usher  in  a  happier  morn, 

To  light  and  cheer  us  on  our  way, 

Through  this  dark  night  of  wild  dismay, 

Roused  by  thy  patriotic  voice, 

To  serve  their  country,  now  rejoice. 

A  cloud  was  gathering  o'er  the  sky, 
And  some  perceived  the  danger  nigh ; 
While  others  thought  'twould  pass  away, 
Like  mists  before  the  approaching  day. 
But  when  the  mighty  storm,  at  length, 
Burst  forth  in  all  its  fearful  strength ; 
Few  were  prepared  to  realize 
The  truth  that  seemed  to  paralyze 
All  hearts,  and  fill  them  with  dismay, 
At  foul  rebellion's  dread  array, 
In  this  our  day,  in  this  our  land ; 
And  scarcely  could  men  understand, 
That  Freedom's  children  could  combine 
Her  sacred  fane  to  undermine ; 
To  stigmatize  her  name  and  birth, 
And  blot  her  record  from  the  earth. 
'Twas,  as  they  thought,  some  frightful  dream 
Which  dawn  would  scatter  with  its  beam : 
But  when  that  wished-for  dawn  arose, 
And  shook  them  from  disturbed  repose ; 


SIR   COPP. 

•  » 

When  Sumter's  guns  boomed  on  the  ear, 

Reality  took  place  of  fear : 

And  then  a  storm  of   grief  and  rage 

Swept  o'er  the  land,  swept  o'er  the  age : 

The  Nation  shuddered  to  its  core, 

The  shock  was  felt  the  wide  world  o'er ; 

Men  roused  themselves  throughout  the  land, 

To  catch  the  word — the  stern  command. 

And  soon  it  flashed  the  wires  along, 
(Thy  voice,  Abe  Lincoln,  clear  and  strong ;) 
Which,  quick  as  lightning's  rapid  wing, 
Was  heard  throughout  the  land  to  ring : 

"  Rise,  children,  rise,  your  country  calls 
To  arms !  or  Freedom  helpless  falls ; 
Your  Mother  is  assailed  by  foes, 
Haste,  haste,  and  ward  from  her  the  blows : 
The  assassin's  hand  is  on  the  knife, 
And  parricides  assail  her  life !" 

Thus  called  the  watchman  from  the  tower, 
And  millions  answered  in  that  hour ; 

"  Lo !  Father  Abraham,  we  come, 
Leave  wife  and  children,  house  and  home, 
Leave  social  joys  and  friends  refined, 
Rend  all  the  ties  the  soul  can  bind ; 
Our  workshops  and  our  farms  we  yield, 
Our  plowshares  in  the  half-plowed  field ; 
Our  horses  at  the  fence  we  tie, 
And  gird  the  sword  upon  the  thigh, 


31 


32  SIB  COPP. 

And  haste  to  meet  the  foe  in  strife, 
And  battle  for  the  Nation's  life." 

Thus  loyal  men,  on  every  side, 
Sprang  forth  all  o'er  our  nation  wide, 
And  offered  up  their  lives,  their  all, 
As  incense  at  their  country's  call. 
The  fair  sex  felt  the  patriot  flame 
And  to  their  country's  succor  came ; 
And,  careless  of  their  own  repose, 
The  part  of  the  wise  virgins  chose. 
The  maiden  bids  her  love,  "  good  by," 
While  the  big  tear  drop  dims  her  eye, 
Which,  yet,  with  haste  she  chides  away, 
Lest  she  some  TV  eakness  might  betray : 
And,  like  the  Spartan  dame  of  yore, 
When  to  her  son  the  shield  she  bore, 
Bade  him  return  upon  the  same 
A  corpse,  or  else  come  back  with  fame, 
The  tender  mother  bids  farewell, 
To  that  sweet  boy  she  loves  so  well ; 
And  binding  round  his  waist  the  sword, 
Thus  cheers    his  heart  by  deed  and  word 

"  My  only  son,  my  darling  boy, 
'Twill  fill  your  mother's  heart  with  joy, 
To  know  this  blade  you  nobly  wield 
For  freedom,  in  the  tented  field ; 
Let  honor  guide  you  in  the  strife, 
And  yield  it  only  with  your  life." , 


SIB  COPP.  33 


And,  as  the  fearful  conflict  neared, 
Such  scenes  as  follow  oft  appeared : 

THE  EVE  BEFOKE  THE  BATTLE. 

'Twas  the  eve  before  the  battle, 

And  the  men  had  taken  leave 
Of  their  lovely  wives  and  sweethearts 

"Who  were  left  behind  to  grieve 
And  think  upon  the  morrow, 

What  disasters  might  befall ; 
Hope  flickered  in  each  loving  heart, 

But  fear  prevailed  with  all, 
Save  one,  a  noble  matron,  who 

The  mournful  silence  broke, 
And  rising  with  heroic  mien, 

Thus  to  her  sisters  spoke  : 
"  Seven  brave  sons  I've  borne  with  pain, 

And  nurtured  at  my  breast ; 
I've  loved  them  well — but  better  still 

My  country  sore  oppressed ; 
^nd  when  the  sound  of  strife  was  heard 

Preparing  through  the  land, 
Co  each  of  my  brave  boys  I  gave 

A  gun  with  mine  own  hand. 
Oh  joyful  mother  that  I  am, 

They  will  not  brook  a  slave ! 
For  happy  homes  and  altars  free 

They're  fighting  with  the  brave ; 
They're  gone  to  join  the  patriot  host 


34  SIB  COPP. 

Encamped  on  yonder  hill ; 
How  proud  I  feel — the  Pilgrims'  blood 

Flows  through  my  heroes  still! 
And,  as  we  parted  then  as  now, 

My  heart  was  free  from  pain ; 
"  Come  back  free  men  to  me,"  I  cried ; 

"  Or  never  come  again !" 
Ye  Mothers  of  America, 

Come  now,  with  me  unite ; 
And  should  we  find  a  recreant  son 

Returning  from  the  fight, 
Unbidden,  without  wound  or  scar, 

Or  wanting  glory's  crown, 
Let's  stone  the  craven  wretch  to  death, 

Or  piecemeal  hew  him  down.  " 


And,  how  the  sires  have  stemmed  the  flood 
That  fills  our  land  with  grief  and  blood ; 
How  well  they  bear  the  brunt  of  woe, 
We  learn  from  scenes  like  this  below : 
Not  tales  of  fiction  to  appal, 
But  truths.     Let  one  suffice  for  all ! 

• 

There  lives  near  Elgin,  Illinois, 
A  man  whose  wealth,  five  noble  boys, 
Was  all  he  had  to  cheer  his  age, 
And  soothe  life's  closing  pilgrimage ; 
The  call  was  heard ;  and,  one  by  one, 
He  sent  them  forth  with  sword  and  gun ; 


SIR  COPP.  35 


At  Lexington  his  youngest  fell, 

And  one  at  Shiloh  by  a  shell : 

A  third  at  Pea  Ridge  lost  his  life, 

With  honor  in  that  fearful  strife ; 

At  Fredericksburgh's  terrific  fray, 

A  fourth  was  swept  from  light  of  day ; 

His  wife,  borne  down  by  sorrow's  wave, 

Found  consolation — in  the  grave. 

Of  all  his  treasures  one  remained, 

"Which  still  the  father's  hopes  sustained  : 

Would  Heaven  this  loved  one  soon  restore, 

To  bless  his  aged  eyes  once  more  ? 

Alas  !  he  too  was  doomed  to  sleep 

In  death,  and  leave  his  sire  to  weep. 

At  Miirfreesboro  he  was  shot ; 

His  father  mourned,  for  he  was  not ! 

But  when  the  first  rude  pangs  had  passed, 

And  the  cold  grave  received  his  last, 

He  thanked  his  Father  in  Heaven  that  he 

Had  thus  been  privileged  to  be 

The  sire  of  Martyrs  for  the  Right, 

Who  fell  in  Freedom's  sacred  fight. 

His  heavy  loss  he  nobly  bore, 

And  wished  that  God  had  given  him  more, 

To  offer  at  his  country's  feet, 

To  make  the  sacrifice  complete  ! 

And  hark  that  wild,  yet  glorious  strain ! 
'Tis  from  the  spirits  of  the  slain ; 
Whose  privilege  it  was  to  fall, 
First  victims,  at  their  country's  call : 


36  STE   COPP. 

SONG  OF  THE  SPIRITS. 

Our  Mother,  oh,  our  Country  dear  ! 

"We  heard  thy  cry  for  aid, 
And,  rending  every  other  tie, 

Thy  voice  we  have  obeyed ! 

We  left  our  plowshares  in  the  field, 

Our  horses  at  the  fence ; 
And,  seizing  weapons  as  we  could, 

"We  rushed  to  thy  defense ; 

Unflinching  or  in  limb  or  rank, 

And  fighting  hand  to  hand, 
We've  found  our  death-blow  on  the  spot 

On  which  we  took  our  stand. 

Here  gently  rest  we  on  the  sod, 
Fixed  on  high  Heaven  our  glance ; 

Pierced,  each,  with  honorable  wounds, 
And  grasping  gun  or  lance. 

Our  Mother,  oh  our  country  dear ! 

Our  spirits  now  rejoice, 
That  we  have  found  this  gory  bed, 

Obedient  to  thy  voice. 

Oh,  'tis  a  glorious  privilege 

Thy  chosen  sons  to  be , 
To  pour  our  life-blood  in  the  cause 

Of  Freedom  and  of  thee ! 

That  blood  shaU  be  the  fruitful  seed, 

In  fertile  furrows  cast, 
Of  deeds  heroic  to  thy  sons, 

While  Heaven  and  earth  shah1  last ; 


SIE  COPP.  37 


And,  like  the  seed  by  Cadmus  sown, 

In  ages  long  gone  by, 
'Twill  raise  a  host  of  armed  men, 

Whose  glory  will  not  die ! 

Oh,  Brothers !  would  you  honor  us, 

As  to  us  seemeth  right ; 
To  us  erect  no  monument, 

ISTo  fulsome  praise  indite ; 

But,  fight  like  men,  as  we  have  fought ; 

Meet  death  with  fearless  eye ; 
And  thus  our  blood  shall  serve  to  tinge 

The  dawn  of  Liberty  ! 


But,  when  the  final  hour  had  come, 
Our  braves  should  bid  adieu  to  home ; 
Ah !  there  were  partings  which  might  wake 
The  soul  to  woe,  and  blanch  the  cheek ; 
For  never  more  in  converse  sweet 
Might  kindred  souls  and  glances  meet : 
Then,  many  a  tender  wife  confessed 
The  anxious  feelings  of  her  breast ; 
And,  as  the  fount  of  grief  she  woke, 
Thus  to  her  husband,  sobbing  spoke : 

PAKTE5TG  FOB  THE  BATTLE. 

WIPE. 

My  husband,  must  we  part?  the  battle  rages; 
With  fell  intent  the  rebel  host  engages, 

And  thou  wilt  fall  untimely  in  the  strife : 
?  \ink,  think  upon  thy  orphans  wildly  weeping- 


38  SUB  COPP. 

No  hand  to  guard  their  waking  hours  or  sleeping ; 
And  oh,  what  pangs  await  thy  widowed  wife ! 

SOLDLEB. 

Dear  wife,  it  grieves  my  soul  to  leave  thee  lonely ; 
Thee  have  I  loved,  Heaven  witness,  and  thee  only, 

And  these  sweet  treasures  which  our  union  bless: 
But  hark !  our  country  on  her  brave  sons  calleth, 
And  if  in  her  defense  thy  husband  falleth, 

Let  this  great  glory  soothe  thy  deep  distress. 

For,  when  once  more  our  glorious  flag  is  flying 
O'er  all  the  land,  its  envious  foes  defying, 

Transcending  e'en  its  ancient  splendor's  pride ; 
Then,  as  the  people  cheer  the  emblem  loudly, 
Amongst  the  matrons  thou  canst  stand  up  proudly 

And  say,  "  for  this  my  noble  husband  died." 

And  when  to  youth  and  womanhood  upspringing 
Our  little  ones  shall  hear  the  echoes  ringing 

With  deeds  embalmed  in  fame's  immortal  story ; 
Then  shah1  then*  bosoms  with  proud  feelings  swelling 
Find  consolation  for  their  loss  by  telling ; 

''Our  honored  father  shares  this  fame  and  glory." 

WIFE. 

But  thou,  meantime,  bereft  of  sense  and  feeling, 
Shalt  sleep,  death's  cold  embrace  thy  limbs  congealing ; 

Thy  home,  thy  love,  thy  country,  all  forgot ; 
Unknown  to  thee  the  glory  of  the  nation — 
Unseen  its  splendor,  its  regeneration  ; 

Ah1  these  will  be  to  thee  as  they  were  not ! 


SIK  COPP.  39 

SOLDIER. 

'Tis  true  death  drowns  man's  sense  in  Lethe's  slumber . 

> 

And  ages  pass  without  or  note  or  number, 
Yet  love  of  home  and  country  cannot  die ; 

My  spirit  from  yon  beautiful  Elysian 

Rapt  in  the  glory  of  ecstatic  vision, 

The  loved  of  earth  shall  ever  hover  nigh. 

The  brightest  Angels  round  the  throne  eternal, 
Gaze  on  no  vision  purer,  more  supernal, 
Than  Liberty  by  human  virtue  won : 
The  highest  throne  on  God's  right  hand  in  Heaven 
To  him  who  for  his  country  falls  is  given ; 

* 

The  Hero's  death  is  endless  life  begun ! 


But  soon  the  last  "  adieus  "  were  said, 
The  kiss  exchanged,  the  tear-drop  shed, 
And  then  our  heroes,  girt  for  fight, 
Marched  forth  to  battle  in  their  might : 
Like  a  broad  river  on  the  plain 
That  sweeps  majestic  to  the  main, 
Now  swelled  by  many  a  creek  and  rill 
From  mountain  side  or  verdant  hill, 
To  which  all  barriers  in  its  course, 
But  add  fresh  fury  to  its  force ; 
So,  fierce,  resistless,  sweeps  along 
Our  Army's  torrent  vast  and  strong, 
Collecting  strength  and  power  each  day 
By  obstacles  thrown  in  its  way, 
Till  all  surmounted,  land  and  sea 
Shall  hail  the  flag  of  Liberty. 


40  SIR   COPP. 

Of  all  that  patriotic  host 
Say,  which  should  be  extolled  the  most  ? 
Since  all  with  equal  zeal  awoke, 
To  save  us  from  the  despot's  yoke. 
From  Maine  to  California's  shore, 
We  hear  the  wild^  tumultuous  roar : 
From  the  great  river  of  the  North, 
To  where  Ohio  sallies  forth 
To  join  the  Mississippi's  tide, 
On  which  our  commerce  free  must  ride ; 
From  Mississippi  to  the  plains, 
Where  miners  delve  for  golden  grains, 
All  o'er  this  Northern  continent, 
So  lately  smiling  in  content, 
We  hear  the  drums  and  bugles  sound, 
The  tramp  of  squadrons  o'er  the  ground, 
All  ready  for  the  glorious  fight, 
For  God,  for  Liberty  and  Right ! 
And  as  they  swiftly  march  along, 
They  wake  the  echoes  with  this  song ; 


"  DELENDA  EST  CARTHAGO." 


When  Rome's  great  rival  in  the  past, 
The  mighty  Carthage,  reared  her  head, 
And  o'er  the  earth  her  poison  spread, 
Man's  brightest  hopes  to  blast ; 
The  Patriot  raised  this  earnest  cry, 
Pleading  for  right  and  Liberty, 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 


SIE   COPP.  41 


When  Hannibal  the  Alpine  height 
O'erleapt,  and  swept  the  Italian  plain, 
And  gained  the  field  of  Thrasymene, 
And  Cannae's  dreadful  fight ; 
Undaunted  midst  the  wild  uproar, 
That  voice  rose  louder  than  before, 

"Delenda  est  Carthago." 

^» 

This  was  the  watchword  of  our  sires, 
When  Britain,  modern  Carthage,  tried 
To  drown  them  in  a  crimson  tide, 
Midst  tribulation's  fires  : 
Threats,  tortures,  blood,  were  all  In  vain, 
For  still  they  cried  unmoved  by  pain, 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 

At  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill, 
Quebec,  Long  Island,  Valley  Forge, 
They  bravely  bore  the  brunt  and  scourge, 
Nor  shrank  beneath  the  ill ; 
Firm  in  the  path  of  right  they  trod, 
Nor  vainly  vowed  to  Freedom's  God, 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 

For  this  our  chieftains  drew  the  sword, 
Our  glorious  heroes  bled  and  died, 
For  this  men's  souls  were  sorely  tried ; 
The  Nation  pledged  its  word, 
That  wheresoe'er  our  flag  unfurled 
The  hope  of  freedom  to  the  world, 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 


.42  SIB  COPP. 

What  though  one  foe  was  prostrate  laid, 
Another  lifts  its  snaky  head 
Which  slept  but  was  not  dead ; 
Sheer  weakness  its  assault  delayed, 
Till  warmed  by  the  breath  of  Liberty 
It  coils  to  strike — Its  sentence  be 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 

Yes !   "  Carthage  must  be  swept  away," 
That  stronghold  of  the  tyrant  race, 
And  Freedom  must  resume  her  place 
We,  modern  Romans,  say ; 
Let  echo  waft  this  cry  afar, 
Whate'er  the  price  in  peace  or  war, 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 

The  fiat  has  gone  forth — the  storm 
Evokes  the  millions  with  its  sound, 
Who  yon   dear  Union  flag  surround, 
And  point  to  slavery's  form ; 
Then,  drowning  the  deep  thunder's  roar, 
They  swell  the  cry  from  shore  to  shore, 
"Delenda  est  Carthago." 


What  strongholds  'neath  their  torrent  fefl, 
Let  Donelson  and  Henry  tell ; 
In  Roanoake,  Orleans,  Newberne, 
The  rebels  may  a  lesson  learn ; 
Where  Butler,  Farragut,  Burnside, 
Cut  short  Secessia's  regal  pride : 


SIK  COPP.  43 

And  they  must  gnash,  their  teeth  and  wail, 
When  Shiloh,  Corinth,  tell  their  tale. 
Their  hordes  to  meet  our  few  how  weak 
At  Pea  Ridge,  and  at  Wilson's  Creek ; 
Where  Curtis  and  brave  Siegel  taught 
A  lesson  with  much  wisdom  fraught. 
But  Springfield  gave  us  cause  to  weep ; 
There  Lyon  laid  him  down  to  sleep. 

The  rebels  how  unfit  to  cope, 
At  Island  Number  Ten,  with  Pope ! 
Their  "  chivalry  "  how  much  at  fault, 
When  Foote  joined  in  the  fierce  assault ! 
Nor  can  the  treachery  and  shame 
Of  others  tarnish  Pope's  fair  name ; 
Since  he  was  left  almost  alone, 
To  cope  with  Lee  at  famed  Bull  Run, 
Where  "  Mac  "  and  Porter  checked  his  speed, 
Withheld  their  aid  in  time  of  need, 
And  dashed  the  victory  from  his  lips, 
To  save  their  rushlight  from  eclipse. 

At  Champion  Hill  we  thinned  their  host, 
When  we  had  won  Arkansas  Post ; 
Where  brave  Me  demand  dealt  the  foe 
Their  great  rebuff — most  fatal  blow ; 
To  whom  the  Country  should  accord 
Fair  play  at  least, — a  cheap  reward, — 
Discard  ingratitude,  mistrust, 
Be  noble,  generous,  and  just. 

At  Antietam  "  brave  little  Mac  " 
The  rebels  swept ;  but,  being  slack 


44  SIB  COPP. 

To  follow  up  the  hot  pursuit, 

The  foe  had  leisure  to  recruit. 

"  Mac  "  might  have  cut  them  off  with  ease ; 

But  "  that  was  not  his  game,"  quoth  Keys.h 

Let  Hudson  Port  and  Vicksburg  heights 
Be,  henceforth,  safety's  beacon  lights, 
To  warn  the  prudent  off  the  rocks, 
Where  rebel  craft  have  met  such  shocks : 
And,  most  tremendous  of  them  all, 
Let  Gettysburg  their  souls  appal ; 
Where  rebel  hordes,  misled  by  Lee, 
Were  forced  by  Meade  to  turn  and  flee ; 
And  where  by  right  their  routed  mass 
Should  have  received  their  "  coup  de  grace.' 
But  this  great  glory  was  in  store 
For  those  who  triumphed  oft  before. 

From  Winchester  and  Fisher's  Hill 
Brave  Sheridan  (our  glorious  Phil.) 
The  Shenandoah  swept  like  fate, 
Where  Early  found  himself  too  late  ; 
And  whence  his  successor,  Longstreet, 
Was  forced  to  beat  a  long  retreat, 
Sans  guns,  sans  baggage,  and  sans  breath, 
Glad  to  escape  pursuing  Death ! 

Then,  at  Five  Forks,  he  dealt  the  blow 
That  laid  the  rebel  squadrons  low ; 
Bearded  the  lion  in  his  den, 
Defeating  Lee  and  all  his  men ; 
Whose  skill  and  courage  could  not  save 
His  cause  from  its  predestined  grave ; 


SIR  COPP.  45 


Who  fought  till,  overpowered  at  length, 
He  yielded  to  superior  strength. 

And  at  Atlanta,  Sherman's  steel 
The  rebels  swept  and  made  them  reel ; 
Annihilated  boastful  Hood, 
And  drowned  his  hordes  in  seas  of  blood. 
He  swept  Savannah  on  his  way, 
Till  Charleston  became  his  prey, 
(That  den  of  rattlesnakes  and  Copps,) 
Nor  even  there  the  torrent  stops  ! 
It  rolls  along  the  Southern  plain, 
Till  all  resistance  is  in  vain ; 
Holds  Johnston's  barbarous  hordes  at  bay, 
Till  Grant,  at  Richmond,  wins  the  day ; 
Which  'neath  his  strokes  is  forced  to  yield, 
And  Lee  and  Davis  quit  the  field : 
Then  Johnston  too  capitulates, 
And  bows  to  justice  and  the  fates  ; 
Rebellion's  suns  thus  set  in  night 
Extinguish  every  lesser  light ! 

Grant,  Sheridan,  and  Sherman  pause 
Then  only  when  the  Union  cause 
Is  crowned  with  victory's  success  : 
Grant  promised  and  would  give  no  less, 
Should  he  be  forced,  in  reason's  spite, 
"  All  summer  on  this  line  to  fight." 
All  honor  to  the  glorious  three 
Who  conquered  Johnston,  Hood,  and  Lee, 
And  to  that  brave, — that  patriot  band, 
Which  quelled  rebellion  in  our  land ! 


46  SIB  COPP. 

Hail  to  the  chief  whose  master-mind 
The  moves  strategic  so  combined 
That  every  check  was  big  with  fate, 
Foreshadowing 'the  grand  checkmate  ! 
And  hark  !  the  fearful  struggle  o'er, 
Their  praise  resounds  from  shore  to  shore; 
The  bells  ring  out  a  merry  peal, 
All  hearts  the  inspiration  feel ; 
The  drums  and  cymbals  joyful  sound, 
Flags  wave,  and  banners  stream  around ; . 
The  fair  then*  pathway  strew  with  flowers, 
And  bouquets  rain  in  fragrant  showers ; 
Where'er  they  go  the  bonfires  blaze, 
And  cannon  thunder  in  their  praise : 
A  grateful  people  everywhere 
Extol  their  deeds,  their  worth  declare  j 
And  bless  them  for  this  sweet  release 

X 

From  war,  and  for  a  glimpse  of  peace. 
And  chief  our  noble  Illinois 
Is  frantic  with  delight  and  joy; 
She  hails  her  son,  a  welcome  guest, 
Returning  to  his  own  dear  West ; 
And,  with  his  glorious  patriot  band, 
Thus  bids  him  welcome  to  her  strand : 

ILLINOIS  TO  GEN.  GRAXT  AND  HIS  CO3IEADES. 

(In  the  Great  Hall  of  the  Sanitary  Fair,  Chicago.) 

Illustrious  heroes !  welcome  all ! 
Thrice  welcome  to  this  princely  hall ! 
With  bounding  pulse  and  hearts  elate, 
We  hail  your  presence  in  our  State, — 


SIB  COPP.  47 

The  prairie  State,  whose  sons  admire 

The  leader's  worth,  the  soldiers'  fire ; 

Whose  daughters  with  unwearied  zeal 

Our  wounded  heroes  nurse  and  heal ; 

Whose  gifted  bards  can  celebrate 

Those  deeds  which  make  her  proud  and  great : 

In  her  behalf,  with  hearty  cheer, 

The  Garden  City  greets  you  here. 

And,  Grant,  fit  representative 
Of  all  that  Liberty  can  give ; 
Her  guardian  in  the  tented  field, 
The  people's  strength,  the  country's  shield, 
Thrice  welcome  to  thy  Western  home ! 
Our  hearts  are  glad  that  thou  art  come. 
In  thee  we  take  a  noble  pride  ; 
Fain  would  we  have  thee  here  abide, 
Until  the  people  call  thee  hence, 
To  be  their  bulwark  and  defense 
In  peaceful  cares,  as  thou  hast  been 
In  many  a  well-fought  battle  scene. 

Thus  coupled  with  thy  conquering  name 
May  our  great  country  shine  in  fame ; 
May  every  grov'ling  passion  fly 
With  violence  and  tyranny ; 
Thus  may  the  glorious  reign  commence 
Of  virtue  and  intelligence  ; 
Thus  may  our  land  at  length  become 
Of  brave  and  free  the  undoubted  home: 
Then  would  thy  brightness  shed  a  ray 
To  cheer  the  wanderer  on  his  way ; 


48  SIB  COPP. 

• 

Then  would  thy  cheering  smile  illume 
The  lettered  delver's  deep'ning  gloom, 
And  give  to  learning,  genius,  art, 
The  sunshine  of  one  patriot  heart ; 
The  soldier's  generous  influence  lend, 
And  be  henceforth  the  poet's  friend ! 

So  may  green  bays  adorn  thy  brow, 
As  thy  fresh  laurels  grace  thee  now  j 
So  may  all  men,  both  East  and  West, 
Rise  up  and  hail  thee  "  wisest,  best ;" 
So  may  the  North  and  South  unite, 
To  crown  thee  first  in  peace  and  right, 
As  all  mankind,  both  near  and  far, 
E'en  now,  proclaim  thee  first  in  war ! 

And  next,  ye  generous  hearts  who  shared 
Your  chieftain's  toils,  and  nobly  dared ; 
Brave  Sherman,  Sheridan,  and  all 
Whom  we  true  patriots  can  call ; 
All  you  who  volunteered  your  aid 
When  danger  every  heart  dismayed ; 
Who  noble  deeds  have  dared  to  write 
In  lasting  colors,  "  black  and  white," 
On  march,  in  battlefield,  or  camp, 
By  sea  or  river-margin  damp, 
Or  where  our  mailed  "  web-feet"  could  wade 
To  point  a  gun  or  wield  a  blade ; 
To  you,  our  well-tried  Union  friends, 
Our  hospitable  State  extends 
A  standing  invitation  meet, 
Such  welcome  as  such  men  should  greet ; 


SIR  COPP.  49 


To  you  she  shall  be  doubly  bound, 
If  oft  her  guests  ye  shall  be  found. 

And,  when  your  warlike  duties  cease, 
Resume  the  nobler  arms  of  peace ; 
Assist  your  chief  to  stem  the  tide 
Of  envy,  hatred,  malice,  pride ; 
And  as  before  with  common  mind 
You  all  against  the  foe  combined  ; 
So  now,  against  home  foes  unite, 
Nor  pause  'till  you  have  won  the  fight. 
The  rubbish  cleared,  the  rock  made  bare, 
Build  up  the  enduring  temple  there  ; 
On  which  the  thunder,  hail,  and  rain, 
And  wind  shall  howl  and  beat  in  vain ; 
Then  every  shock  it  will  withstand, 
Because  'twill  not  be  built  on  sand ! 

And  now  we  pray,  may  Heaven  preserve 
Your  lives,  your  country  long  to  serve 
With  patriotic  hands  and  hearts, 
In  social  life  and  peaceful  arts ! 
So  that  when  death  shall  come  at  last, 
You  each  may  look  upon  the  past 
With  satisfaction,  and  exclaim; 
"  My  country  will  preserve  my  fame :" 
And  men  shall  say  your  deeds  who  scan ; 
"  Each  died,  as  he  had  lived, — a  man." 


Thus  universal  joy  and  light 

Pervade  our  land  late  sunk  in  night ; 

5 


50  SIB  COPP. 

The  clouds  of  grief  have  passed  away ; 
The  dawn  gives  promise  of  the  day ; 
And  hope,  the  polar  star  of  life, 
Succeeds  to  discord,  gloom  and  strife. 
The  people  count  on  happy  years, 
To  compensate  for  blood  and  tears. 
But  ah !  how  brief  is  human  joy; 
What  bliss  is  free  from  base  alloy ! 
Some  note  with  its  discordant  jar 
The  purest  harmony  will  mar. 
The  "  wires  "  convey  a  rumor  dread, 
That  Lincoln,  our  great  chief,  is  dead ! 
Yes,  murdered  by  the  assassin's  hand, 
While  joy  pervaded  all  the  land ; 
When  victory  had  crowned  our  arms, 
And  freed  us  from  war's  dread  alarms  ; 
And  men  would  Sumter's  flag  restore, 
As  it  had  been  in  days  of  yore ; 
And  cause  its  folds  once  more  to  wave 
Where  vile  Secession  found  its  grave ; 
When  Lincoln,  freed  from  carking  care, 
Some  leisure  hours  might  hope  to  share ; 
To  realise  fair  freedom's  cause, 
And  taste  its  fruits — a  just  applause  ; — 
It  cannot  be ! — 'tis  but  a  dream, 
To  cloud  bright  hope's  translucent  beam ! 
An  effort  vain  to  turn  aside 
Attention  from  fair  pleasure's  tide ! — 
Let  joy  abound !  we  cannot  stay 
The  car  triumphal  on  its  way. 


SIR   OOPP.  51 

But  hark,  ouce  more,  that  dreadful  knell 
That  haunts  as  like  a  weird  spell ! 
A  dismal  sound  like  stifled  sigh, 
That  rises  to  a  wail  or  cry ! 
Dread  rumor  spreading  as  she  springs, 
Sheds  poison  from  her  baleful  wings, 
Infecting  mortals  as  she  goes, 
And  stirring  up  their  fount  of  woes. 
Alas !  our  Lincoln  is  no  more  ; 
His  loss  the  nation  must  deplore ! 
And  lo  !  she  robes  herself  in  weeds, 
While  her  great  heart  within  her  bleeds ; 
And  hark  the  people's  doleful  strain 
For  their  great  Chief  untimely  slain ! 

ABEL  MISEAIM. 

A  mighty  man  is  fallen  in  Israel : 
In  Israel  a  mighty  Chief  is  fallen  ! 
Ye  daughters  of  Jerusalem,  lament, 
Ye  sons  of  Israel,  bewail  your  loss ! 
He  fell,  but  not  like  Jacob,  ripe  in  years 
And  dim  of    sight,  his  work  accomplished, 
Surrounded  by  his  sons  and  his  sons'  sons 
To  the  fifth  generation,  blessing  all 
And  bidding  them  farewell ;  but  like  to  Moses, 
Catching  a  glimpse  of  the  fair  promised  land 
From  Pisgah's  top,  forbid  to  enter  it, 
And  there  enjoy  the  fruit  of  all  his  toil. 
With  eye  not  dimmed,  and  with  his  natural  force 
Still  unabated,  he  has  fallen  asleep : 


52  SIR  COPP. 

Yet  not  by  God's  behest.     Like  Absalom 
He  fell  by  violence :  a  nation  mourns, 
And  will  not  be  consoled,  as  David  mourned 
For  Absalom,  his  son.     As  Rachel  wept 
Her  children,  for  they  were  not,  so  America 
Weeps  for  thy  fate,  our  father  and  our  friend ; 
And  cries :  "  My  father,  Lincoln,  would  that  I 
Could  die  for  thee,  my  father,  Abraham ! 
Abraham,  my  father,  would  that  I  could  die 

« 

Instead  of  thee,  my  father,  oh,  my  father  1" 

And  she  has  draped  her  graceful  limbs  in  weeds, 
In  drapery  of  mourning  all  too  weak 
To  give  expression  to  her  speechless  woe ! 
Behold  her  drooping  o'er  her  honored  dead, 
Her  grief  too  deep  for  tears :  and  there  she  stands 
Gazing  intently  on  his  ghastly  wounds 
Whence  blood  and  brain  are  oozing,  and  she  cries : 
"  Behold  the  work  of  treason !  lo,  the  deed 
Of  parricides  who  lifted  up  their  hands, 
Their  murderous  hands,  against  their  father's  life, 
Against  their  benefactor  and  their  friend ! 
Whose  soul  was  ever  gentleness  and  love, 
Who  would  have  gathered  'neath  our,  glorious  flag, 
E'en  as  a  hen  doth  gather  her  young  brood 
Beneath  her  wings,  his  own  rebellious  sons, 
But  they  would  not !  Behold  him  stark  and  stiff, 
The  innocent  one,  the  guileless  and  the  just, 
Who  for  our  sins  has  drunk  this  bitter  cup ! 
Oh,  had  it  passed  away  and  he  been  spared ! 


SIR  COPP.  53 

As  Jesus  suffered  for  the  human  race, 

So  Lincoln  suffered  for  a  nation's  crime, 

On  that  same  day  on  which  the  Saviour  died !" 

Unveil  his  face,  and  note  that  saintly  head 
Disfigured  by  those  gashes  whose  red  mouths 
Cry,  not  for  vengeance,  but  for  mercy  still 
E'en  towards  his  murderers  !    Shall  Justice  sleep, 
Because  his  gentle  spirit  wills  it  so  ? 
Shall  God's  right  hand  be  stayed  from  smiting  all 
Who  in  this  deed  of  hell  have  taken  part  ? 
Who  sanction  it  by  word  or  act  ?    Not  so  ! 
If  men  keep  dumb,  then  shall  the  stones  speak  out, 
And  raise  a  loud,  a  shrill  heaven-piercing  cry, 
And  call  upon  the  thunderbolts  to  strike 
The  guilty  monsters  who  have  done  this  deed ! 
Or  should  these  linger,  may  a  blight  from  God 
Fall  on  their  fields,  their  houses  and  their  flocks  ! 
As  outcasts  may  they  wander  o'er  this  earth, 
The  mark  of  Cain  upon  their  foreheads  set ! 
May  every  heart  of  matron,  man  and  maid 
Be  steeled  against  them,  and  no  pity  soothe 
Their  hours  of  dark  despair,  until  that  life 
Which  cowardice  would  screen  from  justice  now 
Become  a  burden,  and  they  call  on  death, 
But  call  in  vain,  to  end  their  wretchedness ! 

They  have  embalmed  our  chief,  even  as  of  old 
The  patriarch  in  Egypt  was  embalmed ; 
For  whom  they  mourned  full  three  score  days  and  ten. 
But  for  our  patriarch,  three  score  years  and  ten, 


54  SIR  COPP. 

N"ay,  time  itself  will  scarce  suffice  to  mourn  ; 

And  not  alone  liis  native  land,  but  all 

The  lands  and  races  of  the  earth  shall  mourn ! 

Where'er  the  name  of  Liberty  is  known, 

Or  where  the  faintest  whispers  of  it  reach  ; 

For  in  his  life  she  too  has  been  assailed. 

From  Cape  de  Verde  to  Guardefui's  rock, 

From  Table  Mountain  to  Calabria's  shore, 

From  Calpe  to  the  Ural  hills,  and  thence 

To  dusky  Ind  and  Siam,  and  the  coasts 

Of  yellow  China  and  far  off  Japan ; 

From  the  Antartic  to  the  howling  caves, 

Where  ocean  thunders  'neath  the  Northern  Bear ; 

Through  all  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  isles, 

The  mournful  echoes,  catching  up  the  wail, 

Shall  swell  the  diapason  of  our  woe, 

And  men  shall  shudder  when  they  hear  the  strain. 

And  as  the  heavens  were  darkened,  and  the  sun 

Was  veiled  in  sorrow,  and  the  earth  was  rent, 

On  that  sad  day  when  Christ,  the  Saviour,  died, 

Even  so  a  gloom  and  horror  shall  brood  o'er 

Men's  moral  sense — so  shall  their  hearts  be  rent 

With  grief  and  horror,  when  they  hear  this  cry, 

Until  the  very  tyrants  on  their  thrones 

Who  gloat  o'er  this  huge  crime — whose  lavish  gold 

And  words  of  cheer  have  served  perhaps  to  nerve 

The  assassin's  hand  to  do  this  frightful  deed — 

Shall  tremble  for  their  work  and  topple  down, 

Even  as  the  idols  in  their  temples  fell 

Before  the  glory  of  the  Ark  of  God. 


SIR  COPP.  55 

And  as  the  patriarch,  Jacob,  was  iimrned 
In  Canaan,  in  the  cave  of  Machpelah, 
Which  Abraham  bought  of  Ephron,  and  in  which 
He  and  his  loved  Sarah  slept  in  peace; 
Where  Isaac  and  Rebecca  took  their  rest, 
And  Jacob  buried  Leah :  so  our  Chief 
Will  soon  be  gathered  to  his  kin,  aud  laid 
Beneath  the  turf  of  his  own  Illinois, 
To  whose  fair  name  his  own  immortal  fame 
Shall  add  fresh  luster,  while  this  earth  endures. 
And  SPKESTGFIELD,  proud  to  guard  the  patriot's  dust 
Shall  be  henceforth  a  MECCA  to  the  sons 
Of  freedom,  temperance  and  Christian  love, 
To  make  their  pilgrimages  to  that  spot, 
And  bend  in  reverence  at  the  good  man's  shrine, 
The  second  Washington,  as  men  have  bowed, 
And  ever  will  do  honor,  to  the  first ! 

And  as  the  Canaanites,  when  they  observed 
The  grief  of  Israel's  children  round  his  grave, 
And  heard  their  lamentations  loud  and  long, 
Said,  "  This  is  a  grievous  mourning  to  the  Egyptians," 
And  Abel  Misraim  named  that  sacred  place ; 
So  all  the  nations  scattered  o'er  our  globe, 
Noting  our  grief,  and  listening  to  the  cry 
Of  our  great  sorrow,  shall  exclaim,  "  Behold ! 
This  is  a  grievous  mourning  to  the  Free  ! 
Their  wail  of  woe  goes  up  from  all  the  land 
For  Abraham  Lincoln,  their  dear  martyred  Saint  2  " 
And  these  will  join  us  in  our  sorrowing, 


56  SIB  COPP. 

And  tears  shall  flow  in  streams  from  every  eye, 
And  sobs  from  every  heart,  till  all  mankind 
Shall  mourn  in  unison,  and  the  whole  earth 
One  mighty  ABEL >MISB ATM  shall  be  named ! 


CANTO  III. 

*Hark!  from  yon  stately  ranks  what  laughter  rings, 

Mingling  wild  mirth  with  war's  stern  minstrelsy ; 

His  jest  while  each  blithe  comrade  'round  him  flings, 

And  moves  to  death  with  military  glee ; 

Boast,  Erin,  boast  them,  tameless,  frank  and  free, 

In  kindness  warm,  and  fierce  in  danger  known ; 

Bough  Nature's  children,  humorous  as  she ; 

And  he — yon  chieftain — strike  the  proudest  tone 

Of  thy  bold  harp,  green  isle,  the  hero  is  thine  own." — SIB  WALTEB  SCOTT. 

"  Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free ; 
They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery." — MOOBE. 

w  Hereditary  bondsmen,  know  ye  not 

Who  would  be  free,  themselves  must  strike  the  blow?" — BYBOH. 

Though  slavery  hi  its  dying  throe 
Has  done  its  worst, — has  struck  the  blow 
That  robbed  us  of  our  noblest  son, 
And  deemed  a  triumph  it  had  won ; 
Yet  all  its  efforts  have  been  vain ; 
With  Lincoln  "  Mercy  hath  been  slain !" 

Thus  blinded  by  their  foolish  rage 
A  desperate  war  the  despots  wage ; 
One  martyred  patriot  falls,  'tis  true ; 
But  millions  more  spring  up  to  view, 
Who  maddened  by  this  dastard  stroke 
The  vengeful  furies  fierce  invoke ; 


SIB  COPP.  57 


Like  bloodhounds,  with  terrific  yell 
Pursue  the  demons  to  their  hell ; 
Till,  fastening  in  their  flesh  their  fangs, 
They  gloat  in  their  tremendous  pangs. 

The  place  by  Lincoln  vacant  left 
Is  of  his  tenderness  bereft ; 
And  filled  by  one  of  purpose  stern 
"Who  can  'twixt  right  and  wrong  discern ; 
Who  gives  to  justice  its  due  course, 
And  puts  his  country's  laws  in  force. 
Yes !  Johnson  bravely  steels  his  heart 
Against  seduction's  wily  art ; 
Its  blandishments  and  snares  ignores, 
While  high  o'er  passion's  waves  he  soars, 
Resolved  to  save  the  Ship  of  State, 
In  spite  of  rebels,  hell  and  fate. 

Thus  retributive  justice  woke 
Swift  vengeance  with  unerring  stroke, 
On  each  assassin's  guilty  head  ; 
And  now  behold  them  stark  and  dead  ! 
Booth,  like  a  wild  beast,  by  a  ball 
Which  freed  him  from  life's  torturing  thrall : 
That  female  fiend,  Surratt,  strung  up 
With  Payne  has  drunk  death's  bitter  cup ; 
A  warning  to  the  desperate  band 
Of  vixens  who  infest  our  land. 
Harold  and  Atzeroth  must  share 
The  feast  of  death  and  "  dance  on  ah*  I" 


58  SIB  COPP. 

And  Davis  trembling  for  his  fate 
His  turn  to  swing  is  forced  to  wait ; 
His  soul  by  conscious  guilt  consumed 
Feels  all  the  pangs  that  gnaw  the  doomed  : 
Like  Cyclops  gloating  o'er  his  feast, 
The  gallows  gapes  to  gulp  him  last ; 
While  the  vile  scum  who  helped  the  plot 
Are  left  in  dungeons  damp  to  rot ; 
Like  toads,  to  poison  with  their  breath 
Whatever  they  touch, — their  touch  is  death, 

What  though  our  arms  once  met  rebuff 
At  Richmond,  Bull  Run  and  Ball's  Bluff; 
Where  imbeciles  or  traitors  led 
Our  hosts  to  murder's  gory  bed ; 
Where  thousands  perished  in  the  fight, 
And  thousands  more  were  put  to  flight ; 
Where  noble  Baker  fought  so  well, 
And  with  his  comrades  fighting  fell : — 
Such  obstacles  but  swelled  the  tide 
That  swept  the  rebels'  strength  and  pride ; 
And  merely  served  to  whet  the  scythe 
That  lately  made  their  columns  writhe ; 
And  but  postponed  the  reck'ning  day 
When  they  the  bill  and  costs  should  pay. 

For  all  our  well-fought  fields  attest, 
That  Right  alone  by  Heaven  is  blessed ; 
And  that  the  wrong  cannot  prevail, 
Though  hell  our  Union  cause  assaiL 


SIB  COPP.  59 

All  efforts  us  to  thwart,  subdue, 
Recoil  upon  the  rebel  crew, 
To  whom  of  every  hope  bereft 
That  last,  sad  ditch  alone  is  left ! 

That  last,  sad  ditch  ? — think,  friends,  just  think, 
The  "  chivalry  "  shiver  on  its  brink, 
And  fear  to  plunge  !    And  see,  oh  fie ! 
Like  common  hacks,  they  bolt  and  shy ; 
Seek  safety — some  in  swamps  and  boats, 
And  some  in  hoods  and  petticoats ! 
But  still,  ye  mudsills  'grimed  with  dirt, 
"  Take  care,  some  of  you  may  get  hurt !" l 

Then  let  us  raise  to  Heaven  our  voice 
In  grateful  chorus,  and  rejoice, 
That  never,  since  the  world  began, 
More  glorious  shone  the  freeborn  man ; 
And  in  no  nation  old  or  young 
Has  love  of  country  proved  more  strong : 
Not  Greece  in  her  most  palmy  days 
More  nobly  earned  the  meed  of  praise, 
When  her  ten  thousand  heroes  won 
Immortal  fame  at  Marathon  ; 
Or  when  at  Salamis  she  hurled 
Those  bolts  which  fired  and  saved  the  world ; 
Or  at  Plateea  swept  the  plain, 
Where  Persia's  hordes  opposed  in  vain ; 
Or,  at  Thermopylae's  dread  pass, 
The  band  led  by  Leonidas 


60  SIB  COPP. 

Laid  down  their  lives,  a  holocaust, 
To  stay  the  foe's  invading  host : 
Not  Rome  when  fierce,  barbaric  bands 
O'erran  her  city,  towns  and  lands ; 
Or  at  CannaB  or  Thrasymene, 
Where  thousands  of  her  sons  were  slain ; 
Not  Winkleried  or  William  Tell 
Who  fighting  for  their  country  fell ; 
Not  Kosciusko  'midst  the  storm 
That  prostrate  laid  his  manly  form ; — 
Displayed  more  dignity  of  soul, 
More  sacrificing  self-control, 
Than  in  our  country's  cause  appeared, 
When  danger  for  her  life  was  feared : 
For  still  we  cried,  though  suffering  sore ; 
"  We  come  six  hundred  thousand  more ; 
No  shrinking  and  no  compromise 
With  God's  and  nature's  enemies  ; 
And,  while  a  man  or  dime   remains, 
We'll  march,  fight,  rend  the  tyrants'  chains ! " 
.  /Eb«a""«ii^'f5tvf»  copperheads  alone, 
Stood  for  the  sacred  Union — "  one, 
Eternal,  indivisible, 
Where  Freedom  must  and  shall  prevail  I" 

Well  might  the  despots  of  the  eaiQh 
Who  envy  us  our  freemen's  birth, 
Well  might  they  pause  hi  their  career, 
Ere  they  with  us  should  interfere  ; — 
And  shrink  in  terror  from  the  look 
Of  men  who  will  no  despots  brook  j — 


SIR  COPP.  61 


Who,  taught  to  wield  the  gun  and  sword, 
Hurl  fierce  defiance  at  their  horde  ! 

And  let  our  gratitude  extend 
To  every  soul  who  proved  a  friend 
When  danger  rendered  friendship  sweet ; 
Let  generous  acclamations  greet 
Each  noble  nationality 
Which  then  stood  by  our  Liberty : 
Henceforth  let  one  dear  common  name 
Of  "  brother  "  share  one  common  fame. 

Conspicuous  'midst  that  glorious  throng 
Our  Irish  heroes  march  along ; 
The  good,  the  gallant  and  the  free, 
And  chant  the  hymn  of  Liberty ! 
Above  them  Freedom's  banners  wave, 
Beneath  them  yawns — the  Southern  grave ! 
They  march  with  laughter,  song  and  cheer, 
And  mock  at  danger,  jest  at  fear ! 
Ye  wives  and  sweethearts,  weep  and  mourn, 
For  few  will  ever  home  return ! j 

The  Irish  heart,  impelled  by  Right, 
Is  prompt  to  meet  the  foe  in  fight : 
Enough  !   the  flag  which  it  adored 
Is  sullied  by  the  rebel  horde ; 
Enough  to  rouse  its  holiest  flame, 
"  Your  country  is  exposed  to  shame, 
Rise,  patriots,  rise  ! "     They  hear  the  call, 
And  lo !  they  stand  like  solid  wall 


62  SIR  COPP. 

Of  fire,  prepared  to  stem  the  tide, 
And  of  rebellion  check  the  pride ! 
Woe  to  the  foe  that  waits  to  feel 
The  desperate  onset  of  their  steel ! 
The  wild  tornado's  furious  force 
Were  less  tremendous  in  its  course. 

Ye  heroes  famed  at  Fontenoy, 
Look  down  from  Heaven  with  pride  and  joy 
Upon  your  sons  for  freedom  made, 
Here  marshalled  in  a  new  "  brigade, ' 
Whose  fame  on  many  a  well-fought  field 
To  yours  in  glory  shall  not  yield ; 
But  both  shall  be  transmitted  down, 
Equal  in  honor  and  renown, 
Through  every  age  and  every  clime, 
Till  angels  sound  the  knell  of  time. 

In  every  field  for  freedom  won, 
Since  Mercer,  friend  of  Washington, 
Thy  sons,  greefc  Erin,  foremost  stood, 
And  free  as  water  poured  their  blood. 
Bear  witness,  ye  immortal  plains, 
Where  Jackson  fought  at  New  Orleans, 
Where  Albion's  lion  shook  his  mane, 
And  furious  lashed  his  sides  in  vain, 
And,  with  a  terror-stricken  roar, 
Slunk  off  to  reappeai  no  more. 
Bear  witness  too,  ye  glorious  fields 
Of  Mexico,  where,  led  by  Shields 


SIR  COPP.  63 

I 
Their  valor  turned  the  tide  of  war, 

And  victory  chained  to  freedom's  car ! 

And  now  with  joy  we  see  once  more, 

That  noble  spirit  proudly  soar, 

On  eagle  pinions  to  sustain 

Their  country  on  th'  ensanguined  plain. 

What  host  presents  a  nobler  front 
To  hostile  rage,  or  bears  its  brunt 
With  more  heroic  soul  than  they ; 
Or  who  more  dreadful  in  the  fray  ? 
At  first  Bull  Run  with  Corcoran, 
At  Lexington  with  Mulligan, 
They  bore  the  storm  almost  alone, 
IsTor  yielded  till  all  hope  was  gone  j 
And  had  iheir  efforts  been  sustained 
By  valor  such  as  they  maintained, 
Those  sad  disasters,  judges  say, 
Had  surely  rolled  the  other  way. 
At  Winchester  with  Shields  again 
Our  heroes  swept  of  foes  the  plain ; 
Achieved  the  glory,  in  that  fight, 
Of  putting  "  Stonewall's  "  hordes  to  flight ! 
Throughout  those  seven  disastrous  days, 
Near  Richmond,  too,  they  won  fresh  bays, 
When  little  Mac  "  triumphant "  made 
That  "  brilliant "  movement  retrograde. 
Wherever  danger  threatened  most, 
Wherever  pressed  the  rebel  host, 
There  Meagher  and  his  men  were  found 
To  battle  for  each  inch  of  ground ; 


SIB   COPP. 

• 

Their  ready  steel  the  foe  beat  back, 
And  glory  gained  from  each  attack ; 
Until,  all  toil  and  danger  past, 
They  rested  on  their  arms  at  last. 

Antietam's  field  can  also  tell, 
How  well  they  fought,  how  nobly  fell ; 
Till  Fredericksburgh's  twice  fatal  fray 
Had  almost  swept  their  ranks  away : 
For  each  true-hearted  Irishman 
Will  glory  court  in  danger's  van, 
And,  last  to  quit  the  blood-stained  field, 
Will  die  before  he  basely  yield ! 

Heroic  sons  of  injured  sires, 
Whose  bosoms  burn  with  patriot  fires ; 
Whose  souls  abhor  the  tyrant  lord, 
In  freedom's  cause  still  wield  the  sword, 
Nor  sheath  it  while  a  rebel  foe 
Assails  the  land  to  which  you  owe 
All  gratitude  for  blessings  given ; 
Then  "  register  "  a  vow  in  Heaven, 
That  you  shall  neither  pause  nor  rest, 
Nor  pleasure  culture  in  your  breast, 
Till  you've  expelled  the  monsters  vile 
Who  trample  on  your  own  green  Isle ; 
The  traitors  who  enslave  her  sons, 
Her  daughters  and  their  little  ones ! 

o 

The  copperheads  who  wield  their  power 
Her  limbs  to  torture  and  devour ; 


SIR  COPP.  65 


Who  with  base  despots  here  conspire 
To  light  our  fratricidal  fire. 
That  freedom  in  the  flame  may  fall, 
And  one  black  ruin  sweep  us  ail ! 

Rest  not,  until  your  Isle  become 
<{  Plurium 'una," — "  of  many  one ! " 
Where  union  sweet  and  love  divine 
Two  kindred  flags  in  one  combine ; 
The  green  of  earth  with  heaven's  soft  blue, 
The  stars,  stripes,  harp  and  shamrock  too ; 
And,  o'er  your  isle,  sublime  and  free 
These  emblems  float  of  Liberty  ! 
.Then  shall  Columbia's  children  sing 
Hosannas  to  the  eternal  King, 
And  join  with  Erin's  sons  to  praise 
The  Lord  of  nations  and  of  grace, 
Their  anthem,  "  Hail,  Columbia," 
"  Green  Erin  hail, — slan  lat  go  bragh ! " 

It  seems  invidious  to  extol 
A  few  on  the  great  muster  roll, 
Since  all  who  for  the  right  contend, 
And  all  who  freedom's  cause  befriend, 
Are  noble,  and  have  justly  won 
Fame  bright  and  lasting  as  the  sun. 
I  these  record  to  put  to  shame 
The  drabs  who  claim  the  Irish  name, 
But  lack  that  generous  Irish  heart 

Which  ever  with  the  free  takes  part, — 

6 


66  SIR 

Detests  the  traitor  and  the  knave, 
And  loathes  and  spurns  the  willing  slave : 
Nor  would  I  recognise  the  base 
As  appertaining  to  the  race, 
Did  I  not  know  they  were  abused 
By  demagogues,  and  thus  misused ; 
And,  therefore,  not  so  much  to  blame 
As  those  who  glory  in  their  shame. 

These  once  were  serfs  of  Europe's  soil, 
For  some  great  lord  condemned  to  toil, 
With  little  else  save  roots  to  eat, 
At  intervals  a  scrap  of  meat ; 
Deprived  of  intellectual  light, 
And  doomed  to  endless  toil  and  night ; 
Hard  lot !   but  hope's  benignant  ray 
Still  pointed  to  a  happier  day, 
In  scenes  beyond  the  Atlantic  wave, 
That  owned  no  despot,  serf  nor  slave, 
But  where  the  humblest  son  of  toil 
"Was  free  in  freedom's  chosen  soil ! 

Perhaps  some  friend  had  gone  before 
And  paved  your  way  to  that  fair  shore ; 
Or  you  had  never  reached  that  land, 
Whose  very  streams  roll  golden  sand ; 
But  you  arrive  and  burst  your  chain, 
Free  amongst  freemen, — so  remain, 
And  hand  to  generations  down 
That  boon  more  precious  than  a  crown : 


SIR  COPP.  67 

But  do  not  change  yonr  freeman's  heart 
To  that  of  tyrant !     Ha,  you  start ! 
Do  you  forget,  in  days  of  yore, 
Your  sufferings  on  your  native  shore, 
Which  ought,  but  did  not,  give  a  home, 
And  how  you  longed  for  one  to  come  ? 
Do  you  remember  how  your  soul 
Rebelled  against  th'  unjust  control 
Of  those  who  used  you  worse  than  brute, 
Whose  scourge  you  bore  and  yet  kept  mute  ? 
Don't  you  your  children's  cries  recall, 
Which  might  the  stoutest  heart  appall, 
Their  hunger  and  their  deep  distress, 
Their  shiverings  and  their  nakedness ; 
And  how  you  taught  their  infant  tongues 
To  curse  the  cause  of  all  your  wrongs  ? 
And  shall  you  turn  a  tyrant  now, 
And  wear  the  despot  on  your  brow  ? 
Shall  you  whose  scanty  fare  was  roots, 
But  richer  now  by  blacking  boots, 
Rise  like  O'Bulger  and  such  hacks, 
And  fling  your  brogues  at  heads  of  blacks, 
And  trample  the  poor  wretches  down 
To  gulfs  as  deep  as  were  your  own  ? 
Your  country  cries  ;  "  My  sons,  for  shame, 
Shall  you  too  fan  the  tyrant's  flame  ?  " 

'Tis  thus  with  "  Jack  "  who  feels  his  oats, 
Before  his  eyes  a  phantom  floats ; 
He  makes  oblivion  serve  his  need, 
When  he  would  act  the  noble  steed ; 


68  SIB  COPP. 

He  kicks,  lie  plunges,  and  no  sneers 

Can  point  him  to  his  monstrous  ears ; 

The  swift  he  banters  to  the  race, 

And,  for  a  time,  keeps  up  his  pace ; 

But  wind  and  metal  soon  give  out ; 

"  Why,  Jack,  what  brings  this  change  about  ? 

Quoth  Jack,  "  My  boasted  sire,  alas, 

Was  after  all  an  humble  ass !  '' 

O  Heavipaugh,  why  did  you  dare 
Yourself  with  Mmblefoot  compare  ? 
Ambition's  draught  why  did  you  quaff, 
And  thus  provoke  the  wild  horse-laugh  ? 
Had  you  forgot  that  hunting  raid, 
When  you  the  Ron's  skin  displayed, 
Until  detected  by  your  ears, 
Your  real  character  appears  ? 
How  will  you  this  new  shame  abide  ? 
JACK — 

Shame  penetrate  a  donkey's  hide  ? 
SCALPEL — 

So  far,  I  grant,  you  are  secure ; 
'Tis  yours  to  plod,  to  serve,  endure ; 
Within  the  bounds  that  nature  gave, 
Rest  satisfied,  nor  wider  crave. 

The  class  of  Irish  thus  misled 
Are  sound  of  heart,  though  weak  of  head, 
Weak, — not  from  lack  of  mental  force, 
Of  this  they  are  the  fruitful  source ; 


sin  COPP.  69 

And  from  that  matchiess  source  have  sprung  . 

The  gifted  both  in  brain  and  tongue, 

The  patriot,  soldier,  statesman,  bard ; — 

Their  weakness  is  the  slave's  reward ; 

Hemmed  in  with  triple  walls  of  brass, 

Through  which  no  ray  of  light  could  pass, 

Cribbed,  cabined,  hampered  and  confined, 

What  were  the  strongest  human  mind  ? 

The  miracle  in  this  consists, 

That  any  virtue  still  exists 

In  souls,  from  childhood  crushed  and  taught 

To  curb  each  rising,  freeborn  thought 

Which  might  disturb  the  tranquil  flow 

Of  that  mysterious  stream,  below 

Whose  placid  surface  monsters  glide, 

And  despots  base  defile  the  tide. 

"What  matter  ?  there  "  the  ignoble  mass  " 

Must  let  all  crimes  unchallenged  pass, 

Nor  dare  by  gesture,  look  or  tone, 

Transgress  this  law,  "  let  us  alone  1 " 

Jeff.  Davis  saw  its  power  for  evil, 

And  cribbed  this  wrinkle  from  the  Devil, 

And  hence  with  wild  and  frenzied  tone, 

All  Dixie  screams ;  "  Let  us  alone ! " 

Thus  "  nigger-TV  hippers"  steeped  in  lust 
Cry,  "  Sirs,  in  us  put  all  your  trust ; 
Nor  question  what  we  do  or  say, 
Pursue  whatever  course  we  may : 
'Tis  true — we  scourge — the  niggers  groan — 
What  matter  ?  are  they  not  our  own  ? 


70  SIB   COPP. 

"We  from  the  husband  tear  the  wife, 

Yet  don't  we  lead  a  decent  life  ? — 

The  child  snatch  from  its  mothers  breast, — • 

Our  flesh  and  blood  sell  with  the  rest ; — 

But,  sir,  are  not  they  too  our  own  ? 

Take  warning,  then,  let  us  alone ! 

Our  institution ! — 'Tis  divine, 

Its  influence  is  most  benign ; 

Its  power  for  good  you  must  not  blast, 

The  world  without  it  were  a  waste  : 

It  is  our  temple's  corner  stone, 

And  every  one  will  doubtless  own 

'Tis  laid  on  this  undying  truth 

Which  we  have  first  unmasked,  in  sooth, 

And  spread  before  the  world  at  large, 

(How  can  the  world  this  debt  discharge  ?) 

That  negroes  are  beneath  the  whites, 

And,  therefore,  they  can  have  no  rights 

Which  white  men  need  respect ;  their  race 

Are  doomed  as  slaves,  sans  end,  sans  grace : k 

Outsiders  must  not  interfere, 

We  are  the  only  judges  here ; 

Though  millions  in  our  chains  should  groan, 

Hands  off,  let  slavery  alone !  r 

As  certain  teachers  tell  their  dupes, 
(The  bigot's  zeal  nor  flags  nor  droops  ;) 
That  no  salvation  for  the  soul 
Exists,  save  that  which  they  control ; 
And  all  who  will  not  bend  the  knee 
To  them  must  howl  in  misery, 


SIR   COPP.  71 

So  Jeff,  declares  there's  no  salvation 
For  those  who  love  the  "  proclamation ;" 
And  that  a  heresy  so  bold 
Must  keep  its  vot'ries  in  the  cold. 
Let  Massachusetts  cry  in  vain 
Upon  her  own  apostle,  Train, 
To  whom  the  key  of  Afric's  Heaven 
Has  been  by  Jeff,  and  Stevens  given, 
No  entrance  to  that  paradise 
Can  ever  glad  her  recreant  eyes, 
Until  repentant  and  heart-sick, 
She  cease  to  be  a  heretic, 
And  turn  her  face  to  Mecca's  shrine, 
And  swear,  that  slavery  is  divine ! 
If  doctrines  such  as  these  impart 
Their  sting  to  many  an  honest  heart, 

•rr-r-  '  ' 

What  wonder  if  the  poison  spread 
Contagion  to  the  weaker  head  ? 
What  wonder,  that  of  all  mankind 
The  most  corrupt  in  heart  and  mind, 
The  refuse  of  the  scourge  and  rope, 
Of  whose  reform  we  have  no  hope ; 
What  wonder,  if  such  men  assail 
The  simple  heart,  they  should  prevail  ? 
But  can  this  tyranny  endure, 
Or  can  their  triumph  be  secure  ? 
No  I  for  the  honest  still  are  strong 
To  choose  the  right,  eschew  the  wrong ; 
Then*  virtues  to  themselves  they  owe, 
Their  faults  from  other  sources  flow; 


72  SIR  COPP. 

When  led  aright  they  nobly  stand, 
The  bulwarks  of  fair  freedom's  land  ; 
But,  if  by  traitors  led  astray, 
Their  wrath  may  slumber  for  a  day, 
Till,  roused  at  length  to  furious  rage, 
[t  sweep  the  monsters  off  the  stage. 


CANTO  IV. 


"Still  her  old  empire  to  restore  she  tries, 

For  born  a  goddess  Dullness  never  dies." — POPE. 


The  builder  or  the  architect, 
"Who  would  a  nobler  work  erect, 
Must  needs  discard  the  beam  or  spar 
That  would  its  strength  or  beauty  mar : 
So  who  would  build  the  Commonweal, 
Must  labor  with  unwearied  zeal, 
To  cull  materials  sound  and  tried, 
And  useless  lumber  fling  aside ; 
And  guard  our  franchises  with  care, 
Since  their  abuse  hangs  on  a  hair. 

'Tis  terrible  to  contemplate, 
That  all  the  glory  of  the  State, 
Nay,  its  existence,  as  doth  seem, 
Rests  on  a  baseless,  airy,  dream ; 


SIB  COPP.  73 

A  phantom  which  we  try  to  clasp, 
But  which  forever  mocks  our  grasp, 
The  ghost  which  thousands  have  pursued, 
The  whim  of  the  great  multitude ! 

Experience  teaches,  through  all  tune, 
In  every  age  and  every  clime, 
That  virtuous  wisdom  in  each  realm 
Should  man  the  ship,  direct  the  helm. 
What  merchant  sends  his  bark  afloat, 
Manned  by  a  loose,  promiscuous  vote 
Of  those  who  know  nor  rope  nor  chart, 
Nor  Charles'  Wain  from  farmer's  cart  ? 
And  yet,  the  nobler  Ship  of  State 
We  leave  to  more  ignoble  fate ; 
The  shuttle-cock  of  partisans, 
Whose  breath  or  mans  it  or  unmans ; 
And,  through  base  demagogues,  inflates 
Its  sails  to  flout  destruction's  gates.1 

You  say,  "  the  Fathers  so  ordained, 
And  their  decree  mus^  be  sustained." 

Not  so  !    The  Fathers,  wise  and  just, 
Scorned  to  betray  their  country's  trust ; 
They  framed  a  government  the  best 
That  this  low  world  has  ever  blessed ; 
Based  on  this  great  and  noble  plan, 
Th'  inherent  dignity  of  man, 
His  virtue,  wisdom  and  his  worth ; 
And  these,  they  hoped,  would  soon  shine  forth, 


74  SEE   COPP. 

From  out  the  ruin  and  the  waste, 
"Wherein  his  soul  had  been  debased. 
They  hoped,  the  day  star  soon  would  rise, 
To  purify  our  moral  skies ; 
That,  as  the  shades  were  swept  away, 
Grim  night  should  yield  to  endless  day ; 
That  men,  once  freed  from  slavery's  chain, 
Would  not  relapse,  but  free  remain ! 
That  taught  by  suffering  they  would  prove 
For  suffering  slaves  a  Christian  love : 
That,  as  material  wealth  should  flow, 
Mind  with  it  Should  progress  below ; 
As  Heaven  abundant  means  should  pour, 
Schools  should  increase  the  land  all  o'er, 
That  learning,  science,  glorious  art, 
Should  be  diffused  through  every  part ; 
That  palaces  should  rise  sublime, 
Filled  with  the  wealth  that  mocks  at  time ! 
Where  invalids  should  be  made  whole 
By  balm  that  heals  the  broken  soul ; 
And  that  the  good,  the  learned  and  wise, 
Should  nobly  wear  the  well-earned  prize ; 
And  every  worker,  statesman,  bard, 
Should  there  receive  his  just  reward ; 
And  not,  as  now,  degraded  stand, 
To  humbly  bow,  with  hat  in  hand, 
To  proud  officials  raised  to  power, 
By  some  base  impulse  of  the  hour. 

Must  genius  grovel  for  its  pay, 
Like  useless  lumber  stowed  away, 


SIB  COPP.  75 


In  some  official  desk  or  camp, 
To  mix  and  mell  with  every  scamp, 
A  serf, — a  bureaucratic  slave, 
Court  jester,  beef-eater  or  knave ; 
And  not  amongst  the  noblest  shine, 
In  its  own  right  and  light  divine  ? 

My  soul  revolts  when  it  surveys 
The  injustice  of  former  days ! 
And  grieves  to  find  our  own  as  vile 
As  those  which  dimmed  the  olden  style  ; 
The  days  when  Israelites  selfwilled 
The  prophets  stoned,  the  poets  killed, 
The  days  when  slavish  English  churls 
Their  rhymers  starved  and  worshiped  earls  ; 
Who  Shakspeare's  record  left  to  fade, . 
Because  he  had  not  begged  their  aid ; 
Who  suffered  Milton,  blind  and  poor, 
To  starve,  or  beg  from  door  to  door, 
As  old,  blind  Homer  did  before. 
Who  scoffed  at  Dryden  'reft  of  hope 
And  for  his  wealth  who  envied  Pope ; 
Who  gorged  their  sybarites  with  sweets, 
And  doled  the  poorest  skink  to  Keats  ; 
Who  Savage  left,  oh,  how  unwilling, 
To  praise  his  last, — his  "  Splendid  Shilling ;" 
Who  mocked  at  Johnson's  feet  unshod, 
While  Chesterfield  they  deemed  a  god ; 
Who  drove  poor  Burns  to  blank  despair, 
Overwhelmed  with  toil,  with  debt  and  care ; 


76  SIB   COFP. 

They  wronged  him,  as  themselves  allow, 
And  thus  they  wrong  poor  Wingate  now. 

Yes !    Wingate  sweetest  strains  has  sung, 
His  nerves  to  tenderest  feeling  strung 
Still  vibrate  to  the  slightest  touch 
Of  love  or  pain,  alas,  too  much ! 
Yet  he  is  left  to  strive  or  pine 
For  bread,  deep  in  the  dark,  damp  mine ; 
There  doomed  to  crawl  on  hands  and  knees  ; 
Or  if  he  seek  a  moment's  ease, 
He  twists  for  rest  upon  his  back, " 
His  upturned  face  with  coal  dust  black, 
And  forces  from  th'  unwilling  earth 
Those  diamonds  which  make  bright  their  hearth. 
Though  known  to  all  is  his  appeal, 
'Tis  met  by  all  with  hearts  of  steel ; 
Although  a  trifling  aid  would  raise 
The  bard  to  his  appropriate  place. 
Men  read  his  works  and  shake  their  head, 
Because  he  is  a  collier  bred ; 
They  meet  the  man  and  pass  him  by, 
While  Tennyson  they  deify ! 
Because,  true  flunkeys  as  they  are, 
They  prize  not  worth  but  tinsel  glare, 
And  spurn  the  diamond,  rough,  unhewn, 
For  one  that  glitters  near  a  throne. 
But  let  stern  justice  hold  the  scales, 
And  see  with  which  true  worth  prevails ; 
The  collier,  not  the  Laureate,  bard 
Will  claim  the  palm  by  her  award.™ 


SIR  COPP.  77 

The  Laureate  bard  !  again  my  soul 
Can  scarce  maintain  its  self-control ! 
Oh  Tennyson !  how  can  you  bend 
Your  bardic  spirit  to  such  end  ? 
Your  wages  twenty  pounds  a  year, 
With  butt  of  wine  and  keg  of  beer ! 
Your  credit  on  the  royal  books 
Is  scarce  one  third  a  third  rate  cook's ; 
Yet  you  must  sing  and  daub  with  praise 
All  those  who  bask  in  fortune's  rays ; 
You  must  uphold  the  Church  and  State, 
Those  pillars  that  make  Britain  "  Great," 
Which  proudly  claims  "  to  rule  the  waves," 
For  "  Britons  never  can  be  slaves  ! r 
You  gild  this  cunning,  artful,  lie 
With  tinsel  and  with  sophistry ! 
This  is  your  business,  this  your  trade ; 
For  this  your  office  has  been  made  ! 

Nor  dare  you  hint,  that  men  have  rights 
As  well  as  duties ;    that  the  lights 
Of  knowledge  which  your  masters  hoard 
Should  free  as  sunlight  shine  abroad  ! 
And  that  the  people's  wealth  enjoyed 
By  drones  might  better  be  employed, 
In  raising  up  from  moral  graves, 
Your  worse  than  dead,  your  worse  than  slaves  ! 
That  public  schools  should  be  maintained, 
In  which  the  masses  might  be  trained 
To  rise  to  self-respect  and  power, 
Nor  slumber  out  life's  listless  hour, 


78  SIB  COPP. 

In  apathy,  bereft  of  hope, 
Still  doomed  with  poverty  to  cope ; 
To  stagnate  in  its  festering  pool, 
The  scorn  and  butt  of  every  fool ; 
Till  every  trace  of  manhood  fade, 
And  rust  the  heart  and  soul  invade  ; 
Through  which  disease  and  swift  decay, 

r 

Like  vultures,  on  their  vitals  prey ! 

Nor  dare  you  hint,  that  as  I  write, 
While  some  three  hundred  wield  the  might, 
The  millions  of  the  British  race 
Still  bear  the  slave-mark  on  their  face ! 
That,  save  a  few  of  Norman  blood, 
The  mass  are  swallowed  by  a  flood 
Of  tyranny  and  priestcraft  still, 
As  gross  as  in  the  days  of  "  Will," 
The  first  of  Normans,  now  so  famed, 
Who  well  the  conqueror  has  been  named. 

Of  thirty  millions  whom  I  quote, 
Scarce  half  a  million  have  a  vote ; 
And,  worst  of  mockeries,  and  shame  ! 
Nine  tenths  of  these  have  but  the  name, 
These  are  the  serfs,  by  force  or  law, 
Of  those  who  bribe  or  overawe ; 
So  that  of  all  Britannia's  crew, 
How  many  truly  free,  say  you  ? 

You  "  dare  not  reckon ! r 

Dare  you  guess  ? 
About  three  hundred,  more  or  less ; 


SIR  COPP.  79 

Yet  still  "  Britannia  rules  the  waves," 
And  "  Britons  never  shall  be  slaves ! " 

Such  freedom  is  an  iron  chain 
Which  binds  the  people  to  the  plain ; 
Lest  they,  like  earth-born  giants,  rise 
And  pile  up  mountains  to  the  skies, 
Whence  kings  and  their  proud  hosts  be  hurled 
Down  headlong  to  this  nether  world ; 
Their  kingcraft  and  their  tinsel-glare 
Exposed  to  the  rude  vulgar  stare ; 
And  all  their  strength  long  based  on  fear 
Should,  in  a  twinkling,  disappear  ! 

Such  freedom  is  a  monstrous  cheat, 
A  whited  sepulchre  complete ! 
An  empty  phantom  robed  in  pride, 
All  beautiful  to  those  outside ; 
A  baseless. fabric  built  on  air, 
At  distance  seeming  bright  and  fair; — 
But  touch  it,  and  it  crumbles  down, 
A  heap  of  rubbish  with  a  crown ! 
A  den  of  crime,  of  vice  and  sin, 
All  worms  and  rottenness  within ! 
A  flickering,  phosphorescent,  ray, 
That  springs  from  bodies  hi  decay, B 
To  warn  the  Nations  to  keep  clear, 
And  straight  through  right  to  Freedom  steer ! 

Good  Heavens  !  it  almost  drives  me  mad, 
To  hear  each  simpering,  yard-stick  lad, 


80  SIR  COPP. 

And  every  pettifoging  ass, 

With  brain  of  lead  and  brow  of  brass, 

Hiss  thus ;  "  We  want  a  one-man  rule, 

Self-government's  an  arrant  fool ! 

Look  to  Great  Britain,  how  she  shines, 

While  every  blessing  she  combines ! 

An  aristocracy    and  king 

For  us  were  good,  were  just  the  thing !" 

In  such  event,  apes,  where  were  you? 
Too   mean  to  black  the  servant's  shoe, 
Or  sweep  the  mud  from  off  his  track, 
Too  mean  the  "  nigger's  "  boots  to  black ; 
What  place  to  suit  you  could  be  found, 
Save  yon  foul  nightman's  stifling  round  ? 

But,  Tennyson,  what  chain  should  bind 
The  bard,  the  eagle  of  the  mind, 
And  hold  him  down  from  mounting  high, 
And  soaring  through  his  native  sky ; 
Whence  he  could  see  and  point  to  men 
The  truth  and  clear  it  to  their  ken  ? 
You  think  your  golden  chain  too  light 
To  quench  your  flame,  impede  your  flight ! 
Alas  !  you  feel,  it  holds  you  down ; 
And  can  you  barter  fair  renown 
For  such  vile  dross  ?  and  can  you  sell 
Your  soul  for  this  sporad  of  hell  ? 
Renounce  your  birthright  for  a  mess 
Of  pottage  which  no  tongue  can  bless  ? 


SIR   COPP.  81 


Take  warning  from  those  gone  before ! 

Remember  Southey,  Wordsworth,  Moore,* 

And  others  warped  by  gold  accurst, 

But  none  so  basely  as  the  first : 

For  Southey,  in  young  manhood's  glee, 

Sang  of  Watt  Tyler,  bold  and  free ; 

Until  the  owls  who  love  the  night, 

Beheld  and  curbed  his  upward  flight. 

Unfriended,  poor,  unsteady,  young, 

He  yielded  to  temptation  strong ; 

Like  you,  he  snatched  the  golden  bait, 

And  lost  all  view  of  Heaven's  gate ; 

Blew  every  spring  a  clarion  note 

By  which  he  seemed  to  clear  his  throat, 

Which  dwindled  down  to  bathos  weak, 

"Nor  brought  a  blush  upon  his  cheek : 

Thus  ah1  his  talents  ran  to  waste, 

"  Watt  Tyler  "  was  his  first  and  last ! p 

So,  Tennyson,  'twill  be  with  you, 
Should  you  the  beaten  track  pursue : 
Your  "  gen'rous  "  patrons  leave  you  free 
To  chant  all  themes,  save  Liberty, 
To  waste  your  time,  from  year  to  year, 
On  royal  "  Idylls,"  wine  and  beer ; 
Or  catch  from  Burns  the  brooklet's  play, 
Or  sing  a  baby's  lullaby. 

But  hark !  he  coos  like  cushat  dove, 
Of  "  Enoch  Arden's  "  puling  love. 


82  SIB  COPP. 

This  c  masterpiece '  becomes  the  rage 
Of  idlers  in  an  earnest  age ; 
Is  puffed  and  lauded  to  the  skies, 
(How  true,  that  "  dullness  never  dies  ! ") 
As  if  its  author's  powers  might  cope 
With  those  of  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope ; 
And  e'en  the  great  Republic  chimes 
With  this  opprobrium  of  the  times ! 

Oh  praise  absurd !  since  not  one  ray 
Of  genius  sparkles  in  that '  lay ' 
"No  sympathy  for  human  woe, 
No  noble  purpose, — patriot  glow ; — 
No  moral  lesson  to  impart 
Its  solace  to  the  suffering  heart ; 
Not  e'en  the  landscape's  vivid  scene, 
Or  pointed  barb  of  satire  keen  ! 
Where  find  in  it  one  flash  of  wit, 
One  well  aimed  jest,  one  happy  hit? 
One  master  stroke  on  which  to  dwell, 
One  salient  point  its  tale  to  tell  ? 
Our  critics  stammer,  as  they  stare  ; 
"  Wher — where  ?  " — and  Echo  sobs,  "  wher — where  ?  r 

Now  this  reminds  me  of  a  story, 
Which  I  will  try  to  lay  before  you : 
'Tis  of  a  painting  lately  made 
By  Brown,  who  plies  the  artist's  trade. 

Brown  got  an  order  to  prepare 
His  canvass  for  a  picture  rare. 


snt  COPP.  83 

What  might  the  weighty  subject  be? 
'Twas  "  Israel  crossing  the  Red  Sea, 
With  Pharaoh's  host  in  hot  pursuit ;  " 
The  artist  boldly  cried ;  "  I'll  do  it ! " 

And  soon  the  work  before  him  grew, 
Like  thought  his  pencil  o'er  it  flew ; 
The  landscape  'neath  that  pencil  glowed, 
Dark  mountains  frowned  and  waters  flowed : 
Already  trumpet  tongues  proclaim 
The  prelude  of  Brown's  coming  fame. 

At  last  the  work  is  done — brought  home ; 
The  patron,  with  amazement  dumb, 
Finds  words  at  length,  and  thus  exclaims ; 
"  I  see  still  water,  rocks  and  streams ; 
But  where  is  Pharaoh  and  his  host?" 

BROWN — 

"  Oh !  they  in  ocean's  depths  are  lost." 
PATRON — 

"  But  where  is  Moses  and  his  train  ? 
I  search  and  search  for  them  in  vain." 

BROWN — 

"  What !  reproduce  a  scene  so  gross  ? 
Why  they,  of  course,  are  safe  across  ! " 

"  Zounds  ! '"  cries  his  patron,  with  a  frown, 
"  You've  l  done  '  the  job,  and  c  done  '  me, — Brown ! " 

This  praise  to  Tennyson  we  give ; 
His  c  poem's '  a  splendid — negative. 


84  SIR  COPP. 

No  doubt  it  has  much  latent  worth, 
Else  he  would  not  have  put  it  forth ; 
But  this  fine  vein  cannot  be  seen, 
Except  by  eyes  surpassing  keen. 
Some  things  are  better  understood 
As  seen  by  the  great  multitude. 
The  ken  of  Argus,  (who  denies  ?) 
Was  sharper  for  his  hundred  eyes. 
Some  for  their  whistle  pay  too  dear, 
If  purchased  where  a  throne  is  near ; 
Whilst  Wingate,  like  the  nightingale, 
To  darkness  pours  his  mournful  tale ! 

America,  fan*  freedom's  home, 
Shall  you  the  despot's  foil  become, 
And  holding  Albion's  apron  strings, 
The  bard  chain  down  or  clip  his  wings  ? 
Shall  you,  while  waxing  fat  and  strong, 
Become  conservative  of  wrong, 
Forgetful  of  the  bygone  time 
When  slavery  you  deemed  a  crime  ? 
To  Egypt's  fleshpots  now  look  back, 
Regardless  of  fair  freedom's  track ; 
And  turning  from  her  glorious  light 
In  vain  seek  comfort  in  dark  night  ? 
Shall  you  God's  chosen  persecute, 
Or  bid  his  messengers  be  mute ; 
Because  they  point  with  sorrow  keen 
To  that  which  never  should  have  been ; 
And  pray  you  blot  from  freedom's  page 
The  blackest  record  of  the  age  ? 


SIR  COPP.  85 


And  why  so  sensitive  of  pain, 
Concerning  what  should  make  you  vain; 
Should  be  your  glory  and  your  pride, 
Throughout  the  whole  creation  wide  ? 
To  hint  the  name  of  "  radical ': 
Appears  your  feelings  to  appall ; 
And  why  ?  since  he  would  sweep  away 
The  roots  of  all  that  brings  decay, 
And  drive  from  earth  the  baleful  dross 
Of  which  you  seem  to  mourn  the  loss  ? 
And  since  your  temple's  corner  stone 
Rests  on  the  radical  alone ! 

You  hate  the  name  of  abolition 
Almost  as  much  as  of  perdition, 
Though  abolition  must  precede, 
If  vice  must  fall  and  hope  succeed ; 
The  ground  of  weeds  must  be  well  cleared, 
Ere  healthy  plants  be  set  and  reared ; 
Corruption  and  its  horde  must  yield, 
If  Freedom  is  to  keep  the  field. 
You  know  that  this  is  strictly  true, 
Yet  hesitate  what  you  should  do ! 

Your  innate  worth  and  noble  pride 
Can  scarce  your  trepidation  hide, 
And  dread  of  censors  placed  to  watch 
Your  every  motion,  and  to  catch 
Your  slightest  tripping  in  that  pet 
Of  fools  and  knaves  called  etiquette ! 


86  SIB  COPP. 

The  wretched  tricks,  the  feigned  distress 
Of  those  who  live  on  State  finesse, 
Of  scramblers  in  the  sordid  race 
That  leads  to  station,  power  and  place ; 
Of  pettifoggers  who  pollute 
The  tree  of  justice  at  its  root ; 
These  all  by  you  should  be  ignored, 
As  relics  of  a  barbarous  horde  ! 

Perhaps,  e'en  now,  (ah  !  can  it  be  ?) 
You  feel  the  influence  of  the  tree 
Of  royalty,  whose  upas-breath 
Is  foe  to  life  and  friend  of  death ! 
Some  chain  invisible  still  binds 
Your  leading,  not  your  noblest,  minds, 
Who  seem  to  take  the  timid  ground, 
That  simple  truth  must  be  unsound, 
And  will  not  bear  the  deadly  weight 
Themselves  inflict  upon  the  State : 
Who  deem  that  sophistry  and  lies 
Are  for  the  people  good  supplies, — 
By  which  the  people  must  be  fed, 
That  by  the  nose  they  may  be  led. 
These  worthies  beat  about  the  bnsh, 
In  search  of  moonshine,  crying ;  "  Hush ! 
Our  babes,  the  people,  might  awake 
And  catch  us  in  some  grand  mistake  ! 
Or  they  might  haply  catch  a  gleam 
Of  light  from  our  refulgent  beam  ; 
Like  us  become  too  '  smart '  and  wise, 
And  drive  us  from  our  paradise, 


SIR  COPP.  87 


The  chance  of  each  log-rolling  brother 
For  office,  chosen  by  each  other !  "q 
They  call  all  men  out-spoken,  rash, 
Who  think  pure  truth  the  best  of  cash, 
And  that  its  gold  should  current  pass, 
In  place  of  counterfeits  of  brass  ! 

These  seem  disheartened  and  afraid 
To  call  the  honest  to  your  aid ; 
Perhaps,  because  that  name,  of  late, 
Is  out  of  fashion,  out  of  date ; 
Perhaps,  because  each  British  scribe 
With  slender  wit,  but  ready  jibe,' 
Scoffs  at  all  honest  worth  as  low, 
If  not  decked  out  for  royal  show ; 
Or  tricked  in  livery's  golden  sheen, 
Through  which  its  face  may  not  be  seen ; 
And  you  too  much  inclined  to  yield 
Your  better  judgment  in  this  field, 
Are,  quite  unconsciously,  perhaps, 
Entangled  in  these  gilded  traps, 
And  your  true  dignity  disguise 
In  this  unworthy  compromise ! 

For  shame,  America,  for  shame  ! 
Why  not  your  mission  grand  proclaim, 
And  spread  abroad  God's  favorite  plan, 
To  elevate  his  creature,  man ! 
To  you  He  grants  the  noblest  place, 
The  hegemony  of  the  race  ! 


88  SLR  COPP. 

Without  a  blush  accept  your  role, 
And  act  your  part  with  all  your  soul, 
Nor  through  base  fear  of  flunkey  scorn, 
Veil  your  fair  face  that  rivals  morn ; 
Its  beauty  let  the  world  behold ; 
Sublimely  grand,  serenely  bold ; 
Thus  shall  you  still  immortal  shine, 
In  justice,  truth,  and  love  divine ; 

«r 

Though  Britain  tortuous  paths  pursue, 
That  can  be  no  excuse  for  you  ; 
She  left  her  Chatterton  to  woe ; 
VV  hat  have  you  done  with  Edgar  Poe  ? 
O  pause,  reflect,  be  wise  in  time ; 
Neglect  of  genius  is  a  crime ! 
'Tis  Heaven's  bes-t  gift,  exceeding  rare, 
Then  guard  the  plant  with  tenderest  care  ; 
Encourage  it  to  spread  abroad, 
Its  fruit  is  health  and  flows  from  God. 

And  still  'midst  danger's  gloom  you'll  find 
Your  greatest  strength  in  men  of  mind, 
Where  genius,  culture,  worth,  combine 
To  flood  the  soul  with  light  divine. 

Whilst  monsters  dull,  depraved,  ingrate, 
Disgrace  the  land,  distract  the  State ; 
Base  slaves  of  Mammon's  sordid  pelf, 
Strive,  each,  to  aggrandize  himself; 
Whilst  vile  contractors,  like  the  leech, 
Suck  all  the  blood  within  their  reach, 


SIR  COPP.  89 


Their  country  drain  at  every  pore 
And  fatten  on  her  heroes'  gore ; 
Whilst  every  quack  propounds  his  plan, 
And  no  place  has  its  proper  man ; 
Where  are  the  men  whose  mental  gaze 
Can  penetrate  the  thickest  haze, 
And  see,  through  instinct,  dawning  bright 
The  sun  that  scatters  gloom  and  night ; 
Who,  through  rebellion's  stormy  sea, 
Can  steer  our  bark  to  Liberty, 
And,  like  the  good  and  great  of  old, 
Prize  worth  and  virtue  more  than  gold  ? 
Are  Whittier,  Saxe,  Bryant,  unfit 
For  counsel,  for  that  they  have  wit  ? 
And  Longfellow,  the  prince  of  all, 
Why  leave  in  Hiawatha's  hall, 
Nor  call  him  to  the  council  board, 
And  profit  by  his  precious  hoard  ? 8 

You  "  find  no  precedent,"  you  say ; 
Ha !  then  "  red  tape  "  is  in  the  way ! 
ISTo  precedent !  dear,  honored,  dame, 
Your  memory  is  here  to  blame  ; 
For  surely  you  have  read  the  past, 
When  Pericles  led  ton  and  taste  ; 
When  Liberty  prevailed  in  Greece, 
And  bore  the  palm  in  war  and  peace  : 
Then  men  of  genius,  honored,  prized, 
The  noblest  functions  exercised  ; 
And  afterwards,  in  ancient  Rome, 

True  genius  found  a  welcome  home, 

8 


90  SIR   COPP. 

When  Virgil  was  Maecenas'  friend, 
And  proud  Augustus  deigned  to  lend 
His  ear  to  Horace,  and  to  drain 
The  noblest  lessons  from  his  brain. 

The  bard,  in  every  clime  and  age, 
Has  figured  on  the  world's  great  stage  : 
Commissioned  by  the  King  of  kings, 
He  soars  on  bright  celestial  wings ; 
Through  mighty  realms  he  speeds  his  way, 
Like  God's  own  messenger  of  day, 
Diffusing  light  and  hope  abroad, 
And  pointing  out  the  ways  of  God 
To  presidents  and  kings  and  men, 
With  hallowed  lips  or  burning  pen ; 
So  that  no  people  can  afford 
To  disregard  his  sacred  word. 
And  whether  at  Paris  or  Weimar, 
With  Charles  Augustus  or  the  Czar, 
Witb  Lincoln  or  the  British  Queen, 
There  shines  a  Goethe  or  Martine ; 
Or  there  his  influence  prevails, 
Or  else  the  worldly  project  fails. 
Then  let  your  heart  this  truth  record, 
"  The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword ; " 
With  this  to  boot ;  of  sword  and  pen 
The  bard  is  lord, — is  king  of  men  !  * 


SIR   COPP.  91 


CANTO  V. 


"  What  constitutes  a  State  ? 
Men,  high-minded  men."  —  JONES. 


Sljret  bte  grauen  !  f!e  fle^ten  unb 

£immUfd)e  gtofen  iti'S  irbif^e  £efcen.—  ©  filter, 


Dame  Nature  has  to  all  mankind 
Been  purely  just  and  wisely  kind ; 
For  labor  all  her  children  made, 
Each  in  his  calling,  art,  or  trade; 
And  each  is  blest  as  he  pursues 
The  course  which  for  him  she  doth  choose. 
Who  would  be  useful  and  alone 
In  this,  in  that  is  but  a  drone ; 
And  none  in  any  can  succeed, 
To  which  not  nature  points,  but  need ; 
And  every  honest  work  well  done, 
Where  mind  and  muscle  join  in  one, 
Will  give  the  worker  wealth  and  fame, 
While  that  neglected  leads  to  shame. 
But  these  by  men  have  been  so  jumbled, 
That  few  on  their  own  work  have  stumbled." 

But  lo  !  while  wafted  off  my  course, 
I've  lost  the  thread  of  my  discourse ! 
It  seems  to  me,  I'm  off  the  track, 
And  wonder  how  I  shall  get  back ; 
Where  did  I  stop  ?  what  was  my  theme  ? 
'Twas  haply  but  an  idle  dream. 


92  SIR  COPP. 

Just  here  I,  making  full  confession, 
Plead  guilty  of  a  long  digression  ; 
But  claim  your  pardon,  on  the  plea 
Of  absolute  necessity. 
Could  I,  no  prophet,  undertake 
To  tell  what  course  my  snake  would  take  ? 
What  tortuous  windings  he'd  pursue, 
In  trying  to  elude  my  view  ? 
But  now,  unless  his  tail  should  writhe, 
(The  only  part  still  left  alive,) 
I  promise  to  keep  straight  along 
The  theme  and  burden  of  my  song. 

"  The  Fathers,"  yes !  I  sang  of  them, 
(And  let  the  copperhead  condemn !) 
How  simply  grand,  sublimely  great, 
They  labored  for  the  growing  State ! 
The  history  of  the  past  they  read, 
And  o'er  it  modern  science  shed. 
The  golden  age  of  Greece  and  Rome 
Should  be  eclipsed  by  that  to  come ; 
When  sovereign  man  should  walk  abroad, 
And  own  no  king  but  God,  the  Lord. T 

The  freeman's  right  to  vote  his  choice, 
Though  vindicated  by  their  voice, 
Was  yet  so  guarded  by  their  care, 
That  no  unworthy  wretch  should  dare 
To  desecrate  that  gift  of  Heaven, 
If  he  had  hopes  to  be  forgiven ; 


SIR  COPP.  93 


And  wisely,  therefore,  they  ordained 

That  youth  should  be  severely  trained 

In  principles  of  right  and  truth, 

And  every  art  that  graces  youth, 

And  patiently  await  the  hour 

When  they  could  wisely  wield  that  power. 

They  deemed  that  one  and  twenty  years, 
With  careful  study,  prayers  and  tears, 
Might  with  our  virtuous  youth  suffice, 
To  make  them  worthy  that  great  prize. 
And  that  these  ends  might  be  attained, 
Free  schools  were  founded  and  maintained ; 
And  no  one's  child^  or  rich  or  poor, 
Was  spurned  ignobly  from  the  door ; 
And  colleges  were  spread  abroad, 
And  temples  consecrate  to  God, 
Whence  learning  and  religion  spread 
O'er  all  the  land,  their  radiance  shed ; 
So  that  who  chose  might  feel  and  see 
The  glorious  sun  of  Liberty  ! w 

Thus  for  the  children  of  the  land  ; 
For  strangers  from  a  foreign  strand 
A  long  probation  they  prepare, 
Ere  they  the  freeman's  honors  share ; 
They  must  renounce  the  despot's  chain, 
And  Libertv  henceforth  maintain  ; 

•/  ' 

Their  minds  of  prejudice  divest, 
Our  customs  and  our  laws  digest, 


96  SIR  COPP. 

To  note  the  wanderers  from  the  fold, 
To  guide  the  young  and  guard  the  old; 
To  point  the  way  of  truth  and  right, 
And  flood  them  with  celestial  light ! 

The  home  is  freedom's  nursing  place, 
Its  subjects  are  the  infant  race  ;  y 
For  as  we  bend  his  tender  mind, 
So  is  the  full-grown  man  inclined. 
Our  discipline  too  lax  and  mild 
Still  spares  the  rod  and  spoils  the  child ; 
And,  as  is  natural,  the  rule 
Ascends  from  nursery  to  school, 
Where  "  moral  suasion  "  must  preside, 
And  "  no  coercion  "  is  the  guide ; 
What  wonder,  that  the  infant  mind, 
By  appetite  and  passion  blind, 
Ere  yet  to  reason  it  attain, 
Or  conscience  can  assume  the  rein ; 
Should  show  its  grit  in  look  and  tone, 
And  cry  or  act  "  Let  me  alone  !" 

Your  son  like  mine  has  but  one  road 
To  freedom's  temple, — through  the  rod. 
One  only  sense  will  bear  appeal, 
To  make  him  heed,  first  make  him  feel ; 
No  good  by  man  was  ever  gained, 
Save  that  through  toil  and  pain  attained. 
You  lose  your  labor  if  you  plead 
To  empty  benches  in  the  head, 


SIR  COPP.  97 

Or  to  the  still  more  vacant  heart : 
At  this  all  Mann's  disciples  start ; 
My  friends,  the  golden  age  is  o'er, 
Mann  and  his  Mann-ers  are  no  more ! 

What  wonder,  youth  grow  on  our  hands 
Habitual  breakers  of  commands ; 
Depraved  in  habits,  morals,  taste, 
With  every  talent  run  to  waste  ? 
Since  wholesome  discipline  withdrawn 
Makes  room  for  crimes  of  every  spawn ; 
And  leaves  "the  wanderer  free  to  roam, 
Sans  chart  or  compass  far  from  home  ? 
Instead  of  duties  fixed  by  rule, 
We  give  full  scope  to  every  fool, 
As  fancy  or  caprice  dictate, 
And  find  our  error  when  too  late ! 
We  find  the  flowery  path  of  lust 
Leads  but  to  error  and  disgust ; 
And  then  this  other  truth  succeeds, 
"  No  royal  road  to  virtue  leads." 
Sum  up  the  sad  result,  you'll  find 
A  pampered  body,  vacant  mind, 
Whose  helpless  imbecility 
Becomes  of  every  quack  the  prey, 
A  weather-cock  that's  whirled  about 
By  every  gust  of  creed  or  doubt ; 
The  slave  of  lawyer,  leech  and  priest, 
Who  use  him  worse  than  grov'ling  beast, 
And  make  him  swallow  lies  or  pills, 
Just  as  the  mocking  demon  wills ! 


94  SIB  COPP. 

Our  principles  of  freedom  scan, 

And  learn  the  dignity  of  man. 

And  thus  when  five  long  years  had  flown, 

And  they  had  made  our  aims  their  own, 

The  Fathers  thought,  the  time  had  come, 

To  take  the  faithful  strangers  home, 

Adopt  them  in  the  family, 

Henceforth  true  loyal  sons  to  be, 

Admitted  freely  and  at  once, 

To  share  this  great  inheritance ! 

Thus  with  the  native-born  and  those 
Who  from  the  tyrant  sought  repose 
Beneath  our  glorious  flag,  the  aim 
Of  our  great  Fathers  was  the  same, 
By  all  true  freedom  unalloyed 
Might  be,  without  reserve,  enjoyed, 
On  one  condition,  that  they  prove 
Sons  worthy  of  a  parent's  love, 
That  each  should  cherish  in  his  soul 
Fair  Freedom's  essence,  self-control, 
A  conscience  void  of  all  offense, 
Religion  based  on  common  sense, 
Which  gives  to  all  th'  inherent  right 
To  worship  God  in  reason's  light, 
Nor  leaves  to  bigots  to  dictate 
A  marriage  of  the  Church  and  State, 
And  forces  none — the  meanest,  least, 
To  pay  another's  bloated  priest.* 
That  each  remember,  from  one  blood 
All  men  are  sprung — one  brotherhood, 


SIR  COPP.  95 

Equal  before  th'  Almighty's  throne, 
Flesh  of  our  flesh,  bone  of  our  bone ; 
With  rights  prescriptive,  boundless,  free 
To  happiness,  life,  liberty ! 
That  none,  save  those  inspired  by  hell, 
Their  brother,  man,  can  bind  or  sell. 

On  such  conditions  equal,  fair, 
Ah1  can  the  freeman's  honors  share , 
And  who  the  compact  sets  aside, 
Through  ignorance,  ambition,  pride, 
The  sheepfold  enters  o'er  the  wall, 
And  is  no  citizen  at  all ; 
But  an  intruder,  vile  and  base, 
The  scorn  and  refuse  of  the  race ; 
A  wolf  in  clothing  of  the  sheep, 
Who  enters  while  the  shepherds  sleep ; 
Who  gloats  on  blopd  throughout  the  night ; 
But  when  the  morning's  rosy  light 
Appears,  the  dogs  and  men  pursue 
The  blood-stained  thief  in  open  view, 
When,  gorged  with  blood,  his  flesh  and  paws 
Appease  the  hounds'  more  hungry  maws. 
Torn  thus  may  traitors  find  such  room, 
When  light  dispels  our  Country's  gloom. 

Have  we  the  Fathers'  precepts  kept  ? 
Alas  !  too  soundly  we  have  slept, 
And  let  the  precious  moments  fly, 
Regardless  how!  no  watchful- eye 


98  SIB  COPP. 

Yet,  thick  as  insects  on  the  wing 

Must  Solons  from  such  seedlings  spring ! 

Or,  should  we  spend  some  thought  and  care, 
Our  sons  for  uses  to  prepare ; 
What  lesson  do  we  teach  them  first  ? 
The  love  of  mammon,  the  accurst ! 
What  lesson  do  we  teach  them  last  ? 
"  Get  gold,  iny  son,  and  hold  it  fast ; 
Be  grov'ling,  never  lift  the  eye 
Towards  orb  of  day  or  starry  sky : 
All  learning,  science,  treat  with  scorn, 
To  grub  and  scrape  you  have  been  born ; 
And,  right  or  wrong,  accumulate, 
Gold  be  your  god — and  wealth  your  fate ! " 

These  seeds  we've  sown  in  genial  soil, 
And  reap  rebellion  for  our  toil ; 
And  wonder  still,  that  o'er  the  ground 
The  reptile  copperheads  abound ; 
Some,  satisfied  to  vegetate, 
Like  tares,  ignobly  in  the  State  ; 
While  some,  whose  venom  waxen  strong 
Distorts  the  right,  inflicts  the  wrong, 
Crawl  forth  on  missions  in  the  cause 
Of  slave-lords  and  their  brutal  laws ; 
And  care  not  for  their  country's  loss, 
If  they  can  only  clutch  the  "  dross ! r 

Whilst  these  disgrace  the  freeman's  name, 
And  bring  the  land  to  scorn  and  shame, 


SIR  COPP.  99 


By  singing  paeans  to  the  god 
Who  wields  the  despot's  chain  and  rod, 
Th'  awakened  youth  of  Europe  sing 
Hosannas  to  great  freedom's  king, 
And  weary  him  with  earnest  prayer, 
That  she  at  length  find  refuge  there  ! 

Thus,  while  those  "to  the  manor  born," 
"Whose  infancy  and  rosy  morn 
Were  fed  and  shaded  by  that  tree 
So  grateful  to  the  brave  and  free, 
As  copperheads  assail  it  now, 
And  register  a  monstrous  vow, 
Upon  its  beauty  still  to  frown, 
And  ply  the  axe  to  cut  it  down ; 
The  children  of  a  foreign  land 
In  its  defense  most  nobly  stand, 
Protect  it  from  the  murderous  horde, 
By  word  and  deed,  by  gun  and  sword ; 
With  wondrous  unanimity 
Cry,  "  wretches,  monsters,  spare  that  tree ! 
Touch  not  a  bough !  it  nurtured  you 
With  kindly  fruit, — refreshed  with  dew, 
Protected  by  its  grateful  shade, 
And  dare  you  now  its  life  invade  ?" 

Amongst  this  brave,  devoted  band, 
Thy  sons,  Germania,  proudly  stand ; 
To  none  inferior  in  the  fight, 
In  love  of  freedom  and  the  right: 


100  SIR   COPP. 

And  while  this  earth  endures,  bright  fame 
Shall  gild  thy  Siegel's  honored  name ; 
And  those  who  for -the  right  have  stood, 
Or  born  of  thee,  or  of  thy  blood, 
From  him  who  nameless  wields  the  lance, 
To  Heintzleman  and  Rosecrans. 

Yes  !  many  a  field  and  many  a  flood 
Has  reddened  with  Germania's  blood ; 
Her  heroes'  hearts  have  never  quailed, 
Though  oft  by  thrice  their  force  assailed ! 
Let  Pea  Ridge,  Carthage,  Wilson's  Creek 
And  other  scenes  their  praises  speak ; 
Let  Murfreesboro  with  the  rest 
Their  splendid  leadership  attest; 
Where  Bragg  and  all  his  rebel  mass, 
Through  it  received  their  "  coup  de  grace  !" 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MTJRFREESBOKO. 

Cheered  on  by  noble  Rosecrans, 
Behold  our  Union  troops  advance 

To  seek  the  foe  in  fight ! 
The  center  fearless  Thomas  leads ; 
The  left  with  Crittenden  proceeds ; 

McCook  commands  the  right. 

Opposed  is   Bragg,  who  of  the  band 
Of  rebels  holds  the  chief  command ; 

Beneath  whose  banner  ranged, 
Are  Breckinridge,  Claiborne,  Hardee, 
And  Cheatham's  Southern  chivalry, 

In  hate  and  crime  unchanged. 


SIK   COPP.  101 

'Twas  the  last  day  of  "  sixty-two  " 
When  these  two  hosts  appeared  in  view, 

Both  eager  for  the  fray ; 
They  scorned  the  sun's  more  tardy  plan, 
And  fierce  their  murderous  work  began, 

Ere  he  could  dart  a  ray ! 

The  rebels,  as  their  wont  has  been, 
With  wondrous  skill  and  foresight  keen, 

Their  forces  concentrate, 
To  break  our  columns,  wing  by  wing ; 
And  soon  their  cheers  the  echoes  ring, 

Triumphant  and  elate ! 

Within  the  cedars'  gloomy  shade, 

Where  many  a  heart  fleshed  many  a  blade, 

And  many  a  hero  fell : 
What  deeds  were  done  are  lost  in  night ; 
Who  shrank  from,  who  maintained,  the  fight| 

No  mortal  tongue  can  tell. 

Well  might  the  fierce  and  wild  uproar 
That  swelled  each  moment  more  and  more 

Cause  iron  nerves  to  start ; 
Well  might  the  cannon  thundering  far, 
The  hubbub  of  chaotic  war, 

Appall  the  stoutest  heart ! 

And,  as  the  torrent  onward  rolled, 
The  patriot's  faith  might  well  grow  cold, 
And  tremble  for  the  end ; 


102  SIR  COPP. 

And  doubt  our  power  to  turn  the  tide, 
Since  hostile  troops  tramp  down  and  ride 
O'er  prostrate  foe  and  friend ! 

But  Rosecrans,  through  cloud  and  din, 
To  bide  their  time  his  men  curbed  in, 

Nor  for  an  instant  faltered ; 
There  by  his  confidence  inspired, 
And  with  heroic  courage  fired, 

They  stood  unmoved,  unaltered  ! 

His  massed  reserves  stood  calm,  erect, 
Nor  could  the  keenest  eye  detect 

A  sign  of  flinching  there  ; 
And  when  the  rebel  host  came  on, 
Elate  as  if  from  victory  won, 

"  The  Union  "  rent  the  air. 

Then  came  the  fearful  tug  of  strife, 

Then  Greek  met  Greek — then  life  for  life — 

None  pity  asked  or  gave ; 
'Tis  well  the  smoke  conceals  the  fray — 
Too  frightful  for  the  eye  of  day ; 

What  seeks  the  foe  ? — a  grave  ! 

It  seemed  as  -the  sirocco's  breath 
Had  swept  them  off,  its  frown  beneath, 

And  lo ! — they  soundly  sleep, — 
Their  cheers  in  death's  deep  silence  hushed, 
Like  those  in  the  Sahara  crushed, 

The  winds  their  requiem  weep. 


SIR   COPP.  103 


Thus  perish  all  our  Country's  foes, 
All  despots,  tyrants,  and  all  those 

Who  trample  on  mankind ! 
Thus  triumph  Freedom  and  the  Right, 
And  quickly  come  God's  kingdom  bright 
;    Of  Virtue,  Truth  and  Mind!  ^ 

And  we  have  losses  to  deplore, 
Brave  men  as  ever  banner  bore, 

As  Shafer,  Roberts,  Sill, 
Allsop  and  others  whose  fair  name 
Shall  live  on  freedom's  scroll  of  fame, 

And  hearts  with  rapture  fill. 

For  who  can  cease  to  love  the  brave 
Who  died  their  Country's  life  to  save? 

We  envy  them — not  mourn  ; 
Long  as  the  sun  shall  gild  the  sky, 
Beloved  shall  be  their  memory 

By  millions  yet  unborn ! 


E'en  while  I  write,  a  voice'  divine, 
Floats  sweetly  from  the  banks  of  Rhine, 
Where  fair  Bavaria's  lovely  maids 
And  virtuous  dames,  in  vine-clad  glades, 
Prepare  with  their  own  hands  the  lint 
And  linen  without  let  or  stint ; 
And  say :  "  Let  us  the  honor  share, 
This  balm  for  patriots  to  prepare, 


L04  SIR  COPP. 

Who  nobly  fight  and  willing  fall, 

At  Freedom's  and  their  Country's  call." 

The  priceless  packages  they  send 
Thus  marked ;  "  For  heroes  who  defend 
The  cause  of  God  and  all  mankind, 
Their  wounds  to  soothe,  their  bruises  bind, 
These  bales  of  lint  and  linen  fine 
Go  from  Bavaria  on  the  Rhine, 
To  the  far  off  United  States 
Now  nobly  struggling  with  the  fates : 
May  Heaven  defend  her  in  the  strife 
And  re-establish  health  and  life !" 

And  lo !  Columbia  with  a  tear 
Of  gratitude  is  pleased  to  hear 
And  see  this  tribute  of  true  love 
From  lands  which  oceans  far  remove : 
It  gives  her  courage  to  renew 
The  fight,  and  rebels  to  pursue. 
For  sympathy  in  deep  distress 
From  distant  friends  is  sure  to  bless ; 
Though  forced  her  suffering  sons  to  mourn, 
She  greets  Germania  thus  in  turn  : 

"Land  of  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine, 
Where  freedom  shed  her  light  divine 
Long  ere  Hyrcania's  wood  explored 
Had  heard  the  howl  of  despot  lord ; 
Which  Rome  would  penetrate  in  vain, 
And  bind  in  her  all  grasping  chain ; 


SIE   COPP.  105 


Land  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
And  of  the  Frank,  ere  yet  a  trace 
Of  slavery  had  chained  their  sons, 
Through  Normans,  Guelphs,  Napoleons ; 
Fail-  land  of  Gutenberg  and  Faust, 
Restorer  of  an  art  long  lost ; 
Land  of  brave  Luther  who  restored 
Man's  right  to  read  the  Eternal  Word ; 
Land  of  the  sacred  Muses  nine, 
Where  Klopstock,  Goethe,  Schiller,  shine ; 
Where  Bach,  Mozart  and  Mendelsohn 
Were  rivalled  by  thy  sons  alone, 
Beethoven,  Meyerbeer  and  Listz ; 
No  land  beneath  the  sun  exists, 
Where  genius,  learning,  science,  art, 
So  brightly  shine,  so  charm  the  heart : 
Land  of  the  rose  and  of  the  vine ; 
Land  of  Bavaria  and  the  Rhine, 
Accept  Columbia's  grateful  thanks ; 
Thy  sons  adorn  her  martial  ranks, 
Thy  noble  daughters  far  away 
The  purest  worth  and  love  display 
For  her  and  all  who  love  the  Right, 
And  in  the  cause  of  Freedom  fight; 
Our  wounded  heroes,  while  they  bleed, 
Pray  Heaven  to  bless  you  for  this  deed  : 
And,  as  with  grateful  hearts  they  feel 
Your  love  in  these  sweet  gifts  that  heal, 
Their  souls  expand  with  love  divine 
Towards  all  who  dwell  upon  the  Rhine, 


106  SIR  COPP. 

• 

And  praise  the  matrons  and  fair  maids 
Who  bask  beneath  its  vine-clad  glades. 

And  if  a  time  should  ever  come, 
"When  you  shall  seek  a  Western  home, 
Come  on  with  courage  and  good  cheer, 
You'll  find  a  glorious  welcome  here  ! 
Or  if  occasion  should  arise 
To  aid  you  'gainst  your  enemies, 
Columbia's  sons  combined  with  thine 
Will  sweep  the  tyrants  off  the  Rhine, 
Where  our  united  flags  sliall  wave, 
In  triumph  o'er  the  Despots'  grave ! 


CANTO  YL 


u  To  bathe  In  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 

In  thrilling  regions  of  thick -ribbed  ice." — SHAKBPEABB. 

As  Lucifer,  the  angel,  fell 
From  bliss  of  Heaven  to  pain  of  hell ; 
And  there,  as  devil,  would  put  on 
The  mask  in  which  he  once  had  shone : 
So  copperheads,  with  fiendish  guile, 
The  name  of  freedom  would  defile, 
While  they  her  mask  and  robe  display, 
The  better  to  deceive — betray 


SIR   COPP.  107 


The  wandering,  friendless,  emigrant, 

Confiding,  poor  and  ignorant, 

Who  deems  "  Democracy  "  a  name 

Of  something  real,  not  a  sham  ! 

In  reference  to  these,  our  course 

Has  been  unwise — from  bad  to  worse ; 

Ah1  too  indulgent  and  remiss, 

Till  now  we  hear  their  hydra-hiss ! 

/ 

Some  emigrants  our  shores  who  seek 
Digest  our  laws  as  they  do  Greek ! 
And  when  probation  time  is  gone, 
They  find  their  work  already  done ; 
The  years,  we  know,  have  quickly  sped 
Without  impressing  heart  or  head, 
With  sense  of  duties  to  be  done,— 
What  course  to  steer,  what  rocks  to  shun ; 
Yet  without  question,  we  admit 
Th'  untutored  Vandal  as  a  cit ; 
And  thus  the  prudence  of  our  sires 
Is  melted  in  base  party  fires ; 
And  Freedom  drops  her  vital  claims 
In  legal  forms  and  empty  names.2 

How  can  we  Freedom's  reign  restore; 
And  make  her  glorious  as  before  ? 

By  clearing  her,  as  best  we  may, 
Of  snarls  contracted  on  the  way : 
And  Slavery's  terrific  coil 
Will  claim  our  whole  united  toil ; 


108  SIR  COPP. 

With  one  gigantic  effort  first, 
Let's  hurl  to  hell  the  thing  accurst! 
Till  slavery  in  the  land  shall  cease, 
Where  is  the  hope  for  rest  or  peace  ? 
Thereafter  we  shall  be  too  wise 
To  make  with  hell  a  compromise : 
Let  us  dissolve  this  bond  with  Death 
And  freedom  to  our  sons  bequeath  ; 
Then  shall  rebellion  in  our  land 
Forever  hide  its  bloody  hand  ; 
Then  shall  our  righteous  rule  be  laid 
Upon  a  rock  both  sure  and  staid  ; 
And  then  our  stainless  flag  unfurled 
Shall  float,  the  glory  of  the  world  I1 

Another  grievance,  I  opine, 
Is  this,  Jack's  vote's  as  good  as  mine, 
Or  yours,  or  any  noble  steed, 
Though  Jack  is  dull  and  slow  of  speed, 
Degraded,  brutal,  ignorant, 
Depraved  in  every  wish  and  want, 
A  wretch,  a  thief,  an  arrant  knave, 
A  copperhead — a  willing  slave  ! 

To  those  who  from  the  Fathers  quote 
And  say  that  such  were  meant  to  vote, 
I  put  these  queries  now,  at  once  : 
Which  of  the  fathers  was  a  dunce  ? 
Pray  name  the  man, — say,  who  was  he 
Who  thus  could  poison  freedom's  tree, 


SIR   COPP.  109 


By  introducing,  at  its  birth, 

The  borer  that  should  work  its  death? 

Since  all  were  missionaries  known 

Of  these  great  truths,  that  Right  alone, 

Worth  and  intelligence  can  save 

A  free  Republic  from  its  grave  ! 

But  grant  the  fathers  dolts  and  fools, 
Should  we  be  guided  by  their  rules ; 
Be  chained  by  trammels  of  the  past 
And  let  our  reason  run  to  waste  ? 
These  queries  then,  I  put,  per  force, 
How  many  donkeys  make  one  horse? 
How  much  of  ignorance  condense 
To  make  one  mind  of  common  sense  ? 
How  much  of  tyranny  and  wrong 
Will  make  it  right,  in  justice  strong  ? 
How  many  years  of  power  and  lust 
Can  crush  man's  God-given  rights  in  dust  ?2 
What  length  of  lawless  usurpation 
Gives  right  to  rule  in  any  nation? 
How  many  criminals  co-blent 
Suffice  to  make  a  single   saint  ? 
How  many  Arnolds  joined  in  one, 
Suffice  to  form  a  Washington  ? 
How  many  spouters  of  our  day 
Would  make  one  Webster,  Burke,  or  Clay  ? 

I  might  go  on  ad  infinitum, 
Propounding  item  after  item. 


110  SIB   COPP. 

But  still  the  copperhead  is  near, 
And  thunders  fiercely  in  mine  ear ; 

"  Dare  you  our  liberties  assail , 
Must  not  majorities  prevail  ?  r 

I  answer  :  "  as  a  general  rule,8 
The  "  major"  is  the  greater  fool ; ': 
The  horse  that  bears  me  on  with  ease, 
May  be  of  any  hue  you  please ; 
Nor  to  the  binding  do  we  look, 
To  find  the  worth  of  any  book ; 
Nor  judge  we  wisdom  by  its  size, 
Its  weight,  not  bulk,  we  justly  prize. 

"  But  wisdom  lies,"  the  book  avers, 
"  In  multitude  of  counsellors !" 

I  grant  the  maxim  sound  and  true, 
And  just  the  thing  we  want  most,  too  ; 
We've  multitudes  of  quacks,  I  grant, 
And  lawyers  more  than  Heaven  can  want, 
But  as  for  counsellors,  alack, 
Scarce  one  that's  fit  to  counsel  Jack  ! 

What  brought  this  state  of  things  about 

These  same  majorities,  no  doubt, 
Composed  of  moral  lepers,  apes, 
Who  of  true  men  assume  the  shapes ; 
The  sole  reliance  of  the  base, 
To  whom  we  all  our  woes  can  trace  ; 
To  please  this  lowest  rabble  rout, 
We  trot  our  meanest  hobblers  out, 


SIR   COPP.  Ill 

Trimmed  up  to  suit  their  grov'ling  taste, 
Their  characters  smeared  o'er  with  paste ; 
Their  record  from  some  distant  State 
Comes  back  upon  us  when  too  late ; 
But  now  their  face  with  whisky  blooms, 
Whose  odor  all  the  air  perfumes  ; 
Tobacco  juice  streams  all  around ; 
The  halls  with  revelry  resound, 
Where  rum  and  brandy  freely  flow, 
And  all  is  joy  and  bliss  below. 
What  better  bait  could  mortal  proffer 
To  some  who  have  got  votes  to  offer  ? 
They  take  immensely,  oh,  how  good ! 
"  Par  fratrum,"  noble  brotherhood ! 
And  thus  the  ball  incessant  flies 
Down,  down  the  steep,  no  more  to  rise, 
And  thus  'twill  be,  so  long  as  we 
Indulge  this  game  of  infamy  ! 

What  would  you  have  ?  set  forth  your  plan, 
Provided  'tis  republican. 

Republican !  What  else  should  please, 
Or  bring  stability  and  ease  ? 
Yet  what  are  names  ?  what  do  we  care 
For  empty  sound  or  tinsel  glare  ? 
Give  us  the  substance,  fly  vain  shade, 
For  empty  heads  and  stomachs  made ! 
As  said  Erasmus  to  the  Pope, 
"  I'm  orthodox  in  heart  and  hope, 


112  SIB   COPP. 

But,  in  my  stomach,  Protestant, 
At  least  against  all  present  want !" 
So  say  I  now ; — I  Freedom  love 
All  other  earthly  things  above  ; 
In  name  I  love  it,  but,  much  better, 
In  spirit,  substance,  and  in  letter. 

What  mean  you,  then,  by  "Freedom,"  sir? 
Explain  yourself,  without  demur ; 
Have  we  not  got  it  here  already  ?' 
Where  else  can  man  enjoy  it  steady  ? 

Your  queries,  as  an  honest  man 
I'll  fairly  answer,  if  I  can, 
And  first  this  question  I  propound ; 
What  is  true  freedom,  and  where  found  ? 
Where  strength  and  violence  prevail  ? 
Where  widows  weep  and  orphans  wail  ? 
Where  Christian  men  enslave  the  weak, 
Because  the  sun  has  tinged  their  cheek? 
Or,  where  the  humblest  son  of  toil, 
Who  works  the  mine,  or  tills  the  soil, 
Can  raise  to  Heaven  his  grateful  eyes, 
And  thank  the  Ruler  of  the  skies, 
That,  though  all  other  goods  are  flown, 
His  limbs,  his  soul,  are  still  his  own ; 
And  that  no  despot's  hand  can  blight 
His  home  or  rob  him  of  his  right ; 
That  no  majorities  can  wrest 
His  babe  from  its  dear  mother's  breast, 


SIR   COPP.  113 

That  by  no  fathers,  bribed  with  gold, 
Can  their  own  blood  for  slaves  be  sold, 
That  by  no  wretch  for  murder  born 
Can  husband  from  his  wife  be  torn ! 

This  is  the  freedom  guaranteed 
To  men  of  every  color,  creed, 
When  first  our  Nation  saw  the  light, 
By  this  great  charter  of  the  right : 
"  All  men  are  brothers,  equal,  free. 
For  happiness,  life,  liberty !  " 
This  gem  was  won  through  toils  and  throes, 
Through  tribulations,  pains  and  woes, 
By  our  great  sires,  and  handed  down, 
The  noblest  gift, — most  precious  boon ! 
Shall  we,  through  fear  or  impotence, 
Renounce  this  bright  inheritance  ? 
Or  can  we  from  our  hearts  unfix 
The  memories  of  "  Seventy  six""  ? 
Forbid  it  Heaven  !  while  we  retain 
One  note  of  Freedom's  glorious  strain. 

THE  BIRTH  OF  FREEDOM,  JULY  4,  1776. 

(An  Ode.) 

The  die  is  cast, 
Whether  for  good  or  ill, 
Let  no  regrets  our  anxious  bosom  fill ; 
The  Rubicon  is  passed, 

Nailed  are  our  colors  to  the  mast, 

10 


114  sra  COPP. 

A  truce  to  doubting  or  unmanly  fear ; 

For  home  for  country  now 

Are  pledged  the  solemn  vow, 

Our  fortunes,  honor,  life,  and  all  that  we  hold  dear ! 
Thus  to  his  loved  one  did  each  hero  say, 
When  home  returned  at  eve  of  this  immortal  day. 

And  she  replied : 

Well,  since  it  must  be  so, 
With  you  we  sympathize  in  weal  or  woe, 
Assert  your  country's  cause  with  noble  pride ; 
Arm,  arm,  advance  and  boldly  meet  the  foe ! 
Your  country  calls !  you  must  obey  her  voice ! 
A  recreant  he  who  shrinks  from  such  a  call ; 
Since  she  enshrines  our  homes,  our  loves,  our  all ; 
JSText  after  God,  our  country  is  our  choice ; 
And  Heaven  forbid,  it  ever  should  be  said, 
That  we,  Columbia's  matrons,  felt  dismayed  ! 

And  let  not  love 

Of  wife  or  children  you  from  duty  keep  ; 
What,  though  your  absence  lonely  here  we  weep  ; 
IV  all-seeing  eye  will  guard  us  from  above ; 
And  while  the  battle  rages  o'er  the  plain, 
Our  prayers  for  you  shall  not  ascend  in  vain ; 
Or,  should  you  fall  untimely  in  the  strife, 
Heaven  will  befriend  your  orphans  and  your  wife ! 

Beloved,  one  dear  embrace, 
And  then  a  long,  perhaps  a  last,  farewell, 


SIR   COPP.  115 

Should  Heaven  so  will,  my  heart  shall  not  rebel, 
But  still,  this  day  with  pride  I  shall  retrace ; 
My  country  born  to  freedom  and  to  joy; 

Oh !  bliss  supreme, 

This  were  a  theme, 

The  harps  of  mighty  seraphs  to  employ ! 
The  world  shall  hail  this  truth  proclaimed  by  thee  : 
Man  is  by  nature,  and  he  shall  be,  free. 

Wake,  wake  the  lyre, 

Sound  drum  and  trumpet,  let  the  cannons  roar 
Proclaim  the  jubilee  from  shore  to  shore; 
Go,  join  yon  phalanx  like  a  wall  of  fire 
Impervious  around  young  Freedom  thrown, 
And  let  each  hero  mark  her  for  his  own ! 
Thus  spake  each  noble  matron  as  she  gazed, 
Undaunted,  where  no  mimic  war-fires  blazed. 


The  aim  of  government  and  laws 
Is  to  defend  true  freedom's  cause ; 
The  strong  man's  injustice  detect 
And  punish,  and  the  weak  protect ; 
The  innocent  to  vindicate 
By  every  power  within  the  State ; 
Of  evil  to  arrest  the  flood, 
And  use  their  influence  for  good ; 
If  in  these  noble  aims  they  fail, 
And  by  majorities  assail 


116  SIR   COPP. 

The  life  or  liberty  of  man 

'Tis  time  to  spurn  the  odious  plan ; 

And  any  system  to  befriend, 

Which  may  secure  the  wished-for  end. 

On  every  hand  this  cry  we  hear 
"  We  purchase  justice  far  too  dear," 
To  all  its  sons  th'  indulgent  State 
Should  grant  this  arbiter  of  fate, 
Free  as  the  air  that  we  inhale ; 
Fresh  as  from  ocean  springs  the  gale ; 
Prompt  as  the  light  of  summer's  dawn, 
Sweet  as  the  hay-swath  on  the  lawn ; 
Not  tainted  with  corruption's  breath, 
Breathed  from  the  charnel  house  of  deatL 
And,  as  the  people  wield  the  power, 
Why  not  reform  this  very  hour  ? 

So  long  as  magistrates  can  fleece, 
Crime  and  its  causes  must  increase  ; 
So  long  as  jurors  hands  shall  itch, 
And  gold  stick  to  them  fast  as  pitch  j 
So  long  as  officers  are  paid 
Just  as  they  ply  their  venal  trade  ; 
So  long  as  vile  contractors  fill 
Their  coffers  from  the  public  till, 
And  go  unhanged,  while  soldiers  starve 
Or  sink  exhausted  to  the  grave ; 
So  long  as  venal  lawyers  plead 
Not  led  by  right,  but  urged  by  need, 


SIR  COPP.  117 


And  be,  like  cattle,  bought  and  sold, 
And  barter  Heaven  itself  for  gold ; 
So  long  as  judges  shall  be  found 
Who  on  the  strength  of  party  ground 
Their  judgments,  and  the  cause  decide 
To  suit  self-interest  or  pride  ; — 
So  long,  by  mind's  unerring  laws, 
Effects  will  flow  as  bids  the  cause ; 
And  when  the  bantling  is^adult, 
A  monstrous  evil  must  result 
Which  soon  will  swallow  freedom,  down ; 
Vice  brooks  no  rival  near  its  throne, 
But  proudly  wields  its  scepter  dread, 
And  rules  supreme,  a  copperhead ! 

What  use  is  freedom's  written  scroll, 
Unless  'tis  graven  on  the  soul? 
Why  vainly  celebrate  its  birth, 
If  it  has  fled  to  Heaven  from  earth, 
To  aggravate  our  pain  and  cross, 
By  pointing  out  its  grievous  loss  ? 
Astraea  nought  to  me  avails, 
If  but  her  phantom  hold  the  scales ; 
Who,  with  her  finger  in  my  fob, 
Like  saint  bedeckt,  like  strumpet  rob, 
And  smiling  say :  "  Peace,  friend,  be  still, 
This  is  the  law — the  people's  will. ' 

If  slavery's  shadow  in  the  North 
Hath  such  results  as  these  brought  forth ; 


118  SIR  COPP. 

Then  what  must  be  the  moral  state, 

Of  those  who  feel  its  full  grown  weight  ? 

Or  of  a  land  whose  priests  profane 

God's  word  and  his  most  holy  fane ; 

By  preaching  slavery  until 

The  mass  believe  it  is  no  ill ; 

And  four  of  every  six  incline 

To  hail  the  monster  half  divine  ? 

Ask  each  of  these,  and  he  replies : 

"  In  slavery  true  freedom  lies :" 

Ask  where  is  freedom's  proper  sphere  ? 

He  points  to  Dixie ;  "  Lo,  tis  there !" 

Thus  have  they  masked  hypocrisy, 

And  dubbed  her  "  young  Democracy  !" 

Democracy's  vile  sham  and  stain, 
You  don  fair  Freedom's  mask  in  vain ! 
You  cannot  pass  in  that  disguise, 
Nor  thus  elude  our  Argus-eyes. 
Your  boasted  Christian  brotherhood 
Is  one  of  violence  and  blood ; 
Your  star  of  freedom  pales  its  rays, 
Becomes  a  farthing  rush-light's  blaze, 
And  shows  your  "  chivalry  "  as  shams 
Peddling  their  bogus  nuts  and  hams ; 
And  the  vile  rag  you  have  unfurled, 
The  jest  and  scorn  of  all  the  world! 

Nor  is  your  mission  one  to  bless 
The  weak  and  humble,  but  oppress  ; 


SIK   COPP.  119 


Uphold  the  robber,  thief,  and  knave, 
And  make  the  innocent  your  slave. 
Nor  do  you  foster  hope  and  light, 
But  shroud  your  evil  deeds  in  night ; 
Proscribe  all  learning,  genius,  taste, 
And  make  your  realm  a  howling  waste : 
And  on  this  rock  your  church  is  built, 
A  corner-stone  of  vice  and  guilt ; 
And  this  you  purpose  to  defend 
Against  all  comers,  foe  or  friend : 
Entrenched  behind  this  monstrous  wrong, 
You  swear  to  rule,  since  you  are  strong, 
You  boast  your  dupes  God's  chosen  host 
To  scourge  a  world  in  "  darkness  lost," 
"  Fanatics  "  who  refuse  to  see 
The  glory  of  your  "  liberty ! " 
Thus  you  the  God  of  hosts  blaspheme, 
As  aider  of  your  monstrous  scheme ; 
Implore  him  to  blot  out  his  sun, 
By  victories  through  treason  won  ; 
This  land  with  anarchy  to  flood, 
And  drown  all  kindred  ties  in  blood ; 
Nay  this  great  Union  to  destroy, 
That  you  your  bauble  may  enjoy  ! 
Like  some  poor  maniac  raging  wild, 
Or  some  indulged  and  petted  child, 
Who  for  a  rattle  or  a  straw, 
Some  gilded  trifle  or  gewgaw, 
Screams  madly  with  his  ebbing  breath, 
You  grasp  your  idols, — strong  in  death  ! 


120  SIB   COPP. 

Enough !  your  purpose  we  perceive, 
And  spurn  your  doctrines  !  while  we  grieve 
For  our  dear  land's  supreme  disgrace, 
Defiled  and  tortured  by  your  race ; 
Though  brief  and  turbid  be  your  day, 
Your  odious  name  will  bring  dismay, 
Forever,  to  each  generous  heart 
That  with  humanity  takes  part : 
Henceforth,  vile  monster,  live  or  dead ! 
We  dub  you  viper,  COPPERHEAD. 

The  copperhead  !  Has  he  a  soul  ? 
And  does  it  seek  yon  starry  pole, 
When  death  relieves  it  from  the  clay, 
And  wing  on  high  its  airy  way  ? 
I  question  if  a  thing  so  vile 
Can  live  beyond  the  present  style, 
Or  if  it  should,  where  could  it  go, 
To  find  its  full  repast  of  woe  ? 
What  think  you,  then,  of  transmigration, 
Or  interchange  of  place  and  station  ? 
Perhaps  the  nigger-whippers  pass 
To  shades  still  darker  than  of  brass, 
And  copperheads,  as  seemeth  proper, 
Put  on  more  sombre  hues  than  copper ; 
And  find  new  quarters  made  to  fit, 
In  negro  tenements,  to- wit ; 
And  thus  become,  in  very  fact, 
The  things  that  they  so  much  have  cracked ; 
And  hear  their  master,  late  their  slave, 
With  furious  tone  and  gesture  rave ; 


SIR   COPPi  121 

And  feel  the  lash  he  plies  so  well, 
And  howl  in  this  congenial  hell ! 

Transcendant  life !  immortal  part ! 
I  long  to  know  what  thing  thou  art ; 
Whether  a  phantom  light  as  air, 
Or  form  symmetrical  and  fair ; 
An  essence  which  can  never  die ; 
Or  something  passing  as  a  sigh, 

,.~-^'f    ;.  *.-* 

Which,  when  this  frame  dissolves  in  dust, 
Returns  to  nothing,  as  at  first ; 
Or  whether  thou  hast  always  been 

;.    '•  '    > 

The  same,  through  every  changing  scene, 
And  why  to  some  thou  art  so  sweet ; 
To  others  with  such  woes  replete  ? 

It  cannot  be  this  conscious  being 
Is  all  absorbed  in  feeling,  seeing ; 
That  those  desires  we  cannot  sate 
Are  doomed  to  end  in  this  low  state, 
Unsatisfied ;  and  that  the  powers 
We  feel  within  us  and  as  ours, 
Should,  at  our  death,  be  swept  away 
Like  shadows  by  the  morning's  ray ; 
Nor  can  it  be,  that  sin  and  crime 
Can  go  unwhipt,  if  not  in  time. 
No,  we  shall  bask  for  evermore 

i,;A 

In  light,  and  light's  great  source  adore, 
With  those  who  love  the  right  shall  shine, 

In  union,  peace  and  love  divine ; 

11 


122  SIB  COPP. 

Whilst  copperheads  and  all  their  host 
In  hell's  tempestuous  surge  are  tossed, 
And  wail  forever  "  Lost,  lost,  lost !" 

Oh  !  for  a  moment  on  hell's  brink, 
To  view  the  tortured  reptiles  sink, 
Ten  million  fathoms  in  th'  abyss, 
And  thence  rebound  with  bubbling  hiss ; 
Their  throats  with  tmlph'rous  vapor  choked, 
Their  slimy  length  begrimed  and  smoked  ; 
Each  hideous  skin  as  if  'twould  burst, 
By  belching  out  the  draught  accurst ; 
All  tortured  and  convulsed  with  rage, 
To  whom  each  moment  seems  an  age — 
Who  vainly  call  "  emancipation," 
To  free  them  from  that  deep  damnation, 
Or  else  for  swift  annihilation ! 
Then  might  we  realize  the  sting 
That  wrongs  to  men  on  spirits  bring ; 
Then  would  we  fully  comprehend, 
That  God  is  justice  and  its  friend ! 

Oh  miracle  !  scarce  had  my  prayer 
Been  breathed  upon  the  vacant  air, 
When  lo  !  a  vision,  or  a  dream, 
As  clear  as  pebbles  in  a  stream, 
Appeared  before  my  wondering  eyes 
And  filled  my  soul  with  deep  surprise ; 
I'll  paint  the  scene  the  best  I  can, 
'Twas  thus  the  strange  illusion  ran : 


SIR  COPP.  123 

A   DREAM    OP   EREBUS. 

Night's  shadows  closed  round  me,  I  lay  on  my  bed, 
And  visions  of  beauty  encompassed  my  head ; 
The  sweetest  of  melodies  floated  around, 
The  Muses  and  Graces  kept  time  to  the  sound : 
The  scene  was  enchanting ;  but  brief  was  its  stay, 
In  mists  and  in  clouds  it  soon  melted  away : 
Then  darkness  succeeded,  the  horrors  of  death ! 
I  struggled  as  one  who  was  fighting  for  breath  ! 
Till,  in  fancy,  I  passed  through  the  last  mortal  throe, 
And  my  spirit  sought  rest  in  the  regions  below. 

My  passport  delayed  me  a  while,  but,  at  last, 
Through  the  wide-yawning  portals  of  Pluto  I  passed ; 
Then,  warned  by  a  goblin  I  met  on  the  way, 
My  respects  to  the  grim  king  of  Hades  I  pay : 
I  advance  to  his  throne,  and,  without  falling  prostrate, 
I  pay  my  devoirs  to  the  great  arch-apostate. 
He  rose  up  and  told  me  to  follow  his  wake, 
And  a  walk  through  his  kingdom,  for  pleasure,  we'd  take. 
"  I'll  show  you,"  said  he,  "how  my  quarters  are  crammed, 
In  their  various  regions,  with  ghosts  of  the  damned." 
"  I  prse,  sequar,"  said  I,  "  go  ahead  and  I'll  follow ;" 
So  he  led  me  along,  through  a  mighty  big  hollow ; 
On  my  right  hand  I  saw  what  appeared  to  my  sight 
An  iron- walled  palace  of  towering  height : 
I  scanned  it  with  wonder,  but  as  I  drew  nigher 
I  perceived  that  it  was  a  huge  furnace  of  fire : 
Its  apartments  above,  and  its  basement  below 
Were  crowded  with  beings  the  image  of  woe ; 


124  SIR  COPP. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  was  my  query ;  the  Devil  replied, 
'Tis  the  place  where  my  slave-holding  children  are  fried ; 
As  they  said  when  on  earth,  that  a  white  man  must  be 
Above  the  vile  nigger,  it  is  so  as  you  see : 
The  whites  are  above,  and  the  niggers  below, 
The  brimstone  to  stir  and  the  bellows  to  blow ; 
But  let  us  go  on — you  will  see  as  you  pass, 
The  punishment  dire  of  a  much  meaner  class; 
That  pit  on  the  left  is  the  dismal  abode 
Of  a  tribe  who  by  thousands  descend  the  broad  road; 
These  are  base  hireling  watchmen,  who  strove  to  increase 
The  size  of  the  flock  for  the  sake  of  the  fleece, 
No  care  had  above  for  the  souls  of  their  charge, 
But  slept  like  dumb  dogs  while  the  wolf  prowled  at  large. 
There  are  priests  of  all  classes,  all  creeds  and  all  names 
Condemned  to  be  scorched  in  the  sulphurous  flames. 
But  the  meanest  by  far  of  these  groveling  creatures 
Are  those  faators  of  hell,  the  pro-slavery  preachers, 
Who  insist  that  the  Lord  made  the  nigger's  skin  black, 
That  the  white  man  to  Heaven  might  ride  on  his  back ; 
They  quote  still  from  Scripture,  and  make  it  so  plain, 
To  deny  it  were  taking  the  Lord's  name  in  vain  ; 
Disputing  the  fact  were  mere  breath  thrown  away, 
For  is  it  not  written,  "  Ye  servants,  obey  ?  r 
They  drawl  a  long  prayer,  and  a  sermon  conies  next, 
And  "  Cursed  be  Canaan,"  they  take  for  their  text ; 
But  here  a  new  light  on  their  vision  has  burst, 
And  they  feel  that  themselves,  not  poor  Canaan,  are 

cursed. 
Just  a  few  steps  ahead  I  will  show  you  their  station, 


SIR  COPP.  125 

Close  packed  with  those  wretches   who'd   ruin  your 
Nation." 

\   . 

And  soon,  as  we  stood  o'er  a  precipice  dire, 
I  saw  far  beneath  me  the  great  Lake  of  Fire  ; 
Like  the  sea  in  a  tempest  its  surface  was  tossed, 
While  it  swarmed  with  the  pale,  burning  ghosts  of  the 

lost. 

Rock-bounded  on  all  sides,  the  deep,  hollow  roar 
Of  its  surges  resounded  while  lashing  the  shore, 
The  blackness  of  darkness — a  sulphurous  cloud, 
Hung  over  the  scene  like  a  funeral  shroud. 
Yet  plain  by  the  glare  of  the  red  waves  at  play, 
As  they  lashed  the  grim  crags  that  flung  back  the  hot 

spray. 

Each  wave  in  succession  displayed  on  its  crest 
Some  thousand  pale  ghosts  who  were  riding  abreast; 
Till  striking  the  crag  they  sank  down  from  my  sight, 
And  others  rushed  in,  like  to  men  in  a  fight ; 
Oh !  wild  were  the  shrieks  and  the  wails  that  arose 
From  those  as  they  sank,  and  from  these  as  they  rose  j 
So  piercing  and  heart-rending  was  the  sad  strain, 
That  it  thrilled  me  with  horror — transfixed  me  with  pain ! 
These  words  they  ground  out  midst  their  dire  suffocation: 
"  Oh  God !  from  this  hell  grant  us — emancipation, 
Or  else,  in  thy  mercy,  give  annihilation ! ' 
But  hell  bellowed  back,  "  everlasting  damnation !" 

But,  most  frightful  of  all ! — tiger-like  and  inhuman, 
I  hear  the  fierce  howls  of  three  men  and  one  woman-, 


126  SIB  COPP. 

Whose  necks,  hung  in  halters  right  over  the  flood, 
Are  stretched  by  a  wretch  all  bedabbled  with  blood  ! 
All  five  call  on  "  Lincoln  "  for  mercy ;  when  lo ! 
They  are  plunged,  in  a  twinkling,  to  regions  below ; 
Where  long  in  the  torrent  they  struggling  remain, 
Till  the  wave  spews  them  up  to  its  surface  again ; 
There  howling  and  writhing,  unable  to  die, 
Each  visage  distorted  and  bloodshot  each  eye, 
For  mercy  in  vain  the  assassins  still  cry ! 
Ah,  Mercy  they've  slam  ! — Hope  for  them  has  no  room, 
Hell's  no  longer  a  myth, — 'tis  the  parricide's  doom ! 

The  Devil  here  chuckled  with  joy  and  delight, 
And  seemed  to  be  charmed  with  this  horrible  sight : 
"This,"  said  he, "  is  the  place  where  I  demagogues  throw 
When  they  come  here  and  ask  for  their  lodgings  below, 
Since  they  never  loved  aught  but  loud  brawling  and 

strife, 

And  were  true  to  no  party  or  friend  during  life ; 
Ever  turning  and  twisting,  and  dodging  around, 
No  place  more  befitting  for  them  could  be  found ; 
For  here  they'll  be  tossing  and  dodging  forever 
Like  drift-wood  afloat  on  a  rock-tortured  river. 

Here,  too,  let  me  point  to  you  those  wretched  men 
Who  devote  all  their  powers,  both  of  tongue  and  of  pen, 
To  prop  the  slave-holders,  their  code  propagate, 
Turn  earth  into  hell  through  disunion  and  hate, 
And  to  fan  the  fierce  flames  of  your  war  have  combined, 
And,  therefore,  most  justly  have  they  been  consigned 


SIR  COPP.  127 

With  the  meanest  of  devils  who  dared  to  rebel, 
To  be  scorched  in  the  flames  of  the  nethermost  hell. 
Here  are  lying  reporters  and  editors,  speakers, 
And  the  old  Union-savers  and  compromise  shriekers, 
With  blood-sucking  leeches  and  shoddy  contractors, 
Beneath  loyal  masks,  much  the  worst  malefactors, 
Who  smile,  while  your  soldiers  they  starve  and  they  rob, 
More  guilty,  by  far,  than  Buchanan  or  Cobb. 

But  a  new  class  of  sinners  came  not  long  ago, 
And  what  to  do  with  them  I  swear  I  don't  know ; 
I  saw  them,  quite  recently,  stemming  the  Styx, 
Sent  here,  I  suppose,  for  their  dastardly  tricks : 
(For  of  all  who  arrive  here  by  night  or  by  day, 
There  are  none  but  the  meanest  who  come  by  that  way,) 
Each  floated  down  stream,  at  his  ease,  toward  the  lake, 
A  species  of  monster,  half  man  and  half  snake ; 
Their  heads  crowned  with  copper,  their  bodies  with 

scales, 

Like  scorpions  they  carried  their  stings  in  their  tails ; 
And  scarce  had  their  feet  touched  the  marl  of  our  soil, 
When  hell,  by  their  tricks,  was  thrown  into  a  broil : 
And  now  I  am  puzzled  to  know  what  to  do 
With  this  low-lived,   this  white-livered,   COPPERHEAD 

crew. 

It  is  true  I  would  see  the  whole  world  come  to  hell, 
I  am  fond  of  mean  men,  but  these  please  me  too  well : 
In  their  zeal  for  my  cause  and  the  good  of  this  place, 
They  have  brought  my  whole  kingdom  and  cause  to  dis 
grace. 


128  SIR  COPP. 

Though  loyal  to  me  and  vile  slaves  to  my  throne, 
While  accepting  their  service,  the  tools  I  disown. 
Since  they  serve  without  pay  or  a  hope  of  reward, 
I  ain  bound  by  no  bargain  to  show  them  regard: 
I  think  I'll  just  take  them  outside  of  the  town, 
Where  the  drainage,  the  filth  and  the  offal  are  thrown, 
And  toss  the  whole  pack  of  them  into  the  ditch, 
Then  cover  them  over  with  sulphur  and  pitch ; 
Set  fire  to  -the  mixture  and  leave  them  to  cook, 
To  writhe  in  the  flames,  or  to  strangle  with  smoke ; 
And  then  I  will  drive  them  to  earth  back  again, 
To  shiver  in  ice,  howl  in  wind,  hail  and  rain. 

When  Jefferson  Davis  and  his  rebel  host 
Shall  arrive,  by  and  by,  at  the  gates  of  the  lost, 
I'll  meet,  and  assign  them  a  place  near  my  throne, 
And  Davis  and  Floyd  shall  be  stars  in  my  crown ; 
But  this  wretched  crew  to  the  ditch  I'll  consign, 
For,  though  true  to  my  cause,  I  cannot  call  them  mine." 

Just  then  came  a  messenger  hastily  down, 
And  called  out,  "  Your  Majesty's  wanted  up  town ; 
For  another  large  batch  of  the  peace-shrieking  crew 
Have  come  sneaking  down  here  and  are  asking  for  you." 

• 

His  Majesty  then  grew  quite  black  in  the  face ; 
"  I'll  go  and,  by  hell,  kick  them  out  of  the  place : 
Their  stench  I  detest,  I  cannot  bear  them  near, 
And  I'll  soon  let  them  know  that  they  mustn't  stay  here ; 
'Tis  too  much  e'en  for  us,  with  our  devilish  natures, 
To  bear  with  such  fallen,  such  cowardly,  creatures." 


SIK   COPP. 

•  •        » 

So  saying,  and  wearing  a  terrible  frown, 
He  seized  "a  huge  trident  and  hurried  up  town  ; 
Then  quickly  I  heard  mingled  whining  and  shrieking, 
And,  in  thunder  and  wrath,  old  Beelzebub  speaking : 
"  Get  out  of  my  court,  you  vile,  dastardly  crew, 
You're   too  mean  to   stay,  here  where   the    common 

damned  do." 

And  then,  like  a  man  of  his  reason  bereft, 
He  wielded  his  club  and  pitched  in  right  and  left. 

They  yelled,  and  shrieked  "  Peace,  oh,  pray,  Satan> 

hold  on, 

We  are  loyal  to  you !" — cried  Satan,  "  Begone  !" 
"While  the  blows  he  dealt  out  made  the  peace-sneaks  to 


scream ; — 


With  their  yells  in  my  ears,  I  awoke  from  my  dream  i 


My  task  is  done,  my  work  is  ended  5 
Behold  the  Copperhead  suspended 
'Twixt  Heaven  and  earth,  in  open  air. 
His  whole  anatomy  laid  bare ; 
Normal  and  morbid  all  made  known, 
In  soul  and  body,  nerve  and  bone ! 
Since  Satan  wonld  not  let  him  stay 
In  realms  which  shun  the  light  of  day ; 
(Where  he  in  torture  would  abide, 
If  he  his  deep  disgrace  could  hide,) 


130  SIB   COPP. 

Here  pilloried  in  sight  of  men, 
Impaled  on  my  steel-pointed  pen, 
Like  Tantalus  tormented  ever, 
Let  vultures  prey  upon  his  liver, 
Which,  by  some  retributive  power, 
Still  grows  as  fast  as  they  devour, 
Till  passers-by  shall  point  with  scorn, 
And  cry,  "  'Twere  better  not  be  born, 
Than  thus  to  writhe  in  infamy, 
As  long  as  sun  and  stars  shall  be !" 

And  when,  in  some  far  future  age> 
The  student  of  creation's  page 
Shall  dig  his  fossils  from  the  ground, 
And  stand  amazed,  in  doubt  profound, 
As  to  what  species  and  what  race 
The  monstrous  reptile  he  can  trace, 
And  wonder,  with  suspended  breath, 
His  use  or  purpose  on  the  earth ; 
These  records  all  his  doubts  shall  clear, 
When  he  beholds  him  pictured  here, 
So  fully,  that  who  runs  will  read, 
Then  shudder,  and  increase  his  speed ! 

Thus  much  for  science  having  won, 
I  take  my  leave,  my  task  is  done. 


THE   END. 


/  • 


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